


Of Sinners and Saints

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Greg the Criminal, M/M, Mycroft the Vicar, mystrade, rekindling old feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2018-11-15 19:52:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 145,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11238033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: They grew up in a rough neighborhood, where an intelligent, gentle boy like Mycroft Holmes would have been savaged if it wasn’t for the fact that his best friend was Greg Lestrade, one of the toughest kids around and one who was devoted to keeping Mycroft safe from anyone who might want to hurt him.  That devotion deepened into something very different as the boys aged and, though his heart swelled with pride when Mycroft won a scholarship to a prestigious college, that same heart shattered when Mycroft went away, determined to study theology and forge a life in the church.Without Mycroft's steady support and clear sense of right and wrong, however, Greg takes a different path and forges a life in the criminal underworld.  After a 'business' deal goes bad, Greg races to the one person he knows he can trust, but have Greg’s choices forever closed the door on their relationship, be it one of friendship or something much, much more?   When an unfamiliar car pulls up to the front of Mycroft’s church, that question has a chance to be answered…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> From a [photoset and plot bunny](http://eventhorizon451.tumblr.com/post/161967136656/they-grew-up-in-a-rough-neighborhood-where-an) I put together today, the lure of starting a new story was too strong to resist...

If Greg gripped the wheel of the stolen car any harder, he’d feel it crumble between his fingers and that wouldn’t help him put the distance he needed between the fucking disaster he’d just fled and wherever he was going.  Which was god knows where.

Running his hand through his sweat-soaked hair, Greg let his brain kick the inside of his thick skull over and over, taking each punishing blow as his due for being stupid.  He’d known something was wrong!  Knew it smelled, looked and felt funny and he let himself go through with it anyway.  It was idiotic to walk past a deal that lucrative, but it was _more_ idiotic not to pull the fucking plug when you had that gut feeling that the deal had been soured even before you showed up for payment.  Yes, deadlines got renegotiated and yes, you sometimes saw a contact person be switched and yes, again, it wasn’t unheard of for a meeting location to be moved, but all three… on top of a certain arsehole practically _begging_ to tag along to see the deal done…

It was that weasly little fucker Dimmock, he knew it was.  Always nipping at his heels, hoping to crawl over his carcass to move up the ladder and he’d taken out the weasel’s throat every time he tried.  Now, he’d make certain that throat was cut for real.  Cut so deep that his fucking head fell off and could be used as a football.  He’d seen the smirk.  The knowing smirk on the bastard’s face when they opened the van and the familiar medical supply boxes they used to move counterfeit smartphones had been replaced by office supply boxes that actually held office supplies!  Reams of paper and boxes of sodding staples… Right now, he knew, he just knew if he checked his bank account, he’d find a tidy sum that wasn’t there this morning and wouldn’t be there in a few days’ time.  It’d be there just long enough for certain people to check and see it as corroboration that he’d decided to make his own side deal with their merchandise.  A side deal that was rumbled by one fucking weasel who would probably get a nice reward while _he_ had to find somewhere to hide until he figured out a way to get out of this jam.

This was the second car he’d stolen, so nobody would be able to trace where he’d gone and he’d tossed his mobile so he would even be tempted to answer it if someone called.  No using his bank cards, either.  Too many cops with open pockets who’d love to do a small activity-tracing favor for the right price.  All of this, rolled into a nasty fucking ball, meant that he had a few hundred quid to his name for petrol, fresh clothes, a clean phone, and twelve tons of bandages and disinfectant for this arm, that was dripping blood onto the car’s surprisingly pristine upholstery.

Guns!  You never, _never_ , bring guns for a simple delivery unless you had a very… no, _extremely_ … good idea they’d be needed.  Why’d you have a nice small-caliber jobbie in your pocket, Dimmock, old friend?  And why’d you draw it before anyone else, which simply ensured the shit we were in was not only knee deep, it was neck deep, too? Maybe Dimmock caught one in his fucking head after he’d started running.  That would be a bright spot.  Right now, he could use one of those, too.  Use a lot of them, really…

__________

This wasn’t smart.  Ok, it was actually very, very _smart_ , but it wasn’t smart at all.  The past liked to stay where you put it, not dug up and waved about like a flag.  A bloody, tired, hungry, anxious flag that was flapping a bit too much in the wind right now because there was every possibility there were a brace of solemn-faced lads looking for him to finish what that one bullet started.

No, this wasn’t smart, but, right now, he needed one thing in his life he could count on and here was the one place he could find that.  And, how lucky was he that the lights were still on…

__________

Yes, Mrs. Turner, the flowers sound positively wonderful.  No, Mrs. Turner, an abundance of red won’t make our little fete seem like a communist rally.  Yes, Mrs. Turner, I am very well aware of your views on the communists.  No, Mrs. Turner, I do not believe our Lord has prohibited praying for filthy, communist souls.  No, Mrs. Turner, I do not think the Bishop will agree to issue a proclamation banning the saying of prayers for those who actively practice or endorse communism.  Yes, Mrs. Turner, I will raise the issue with him during our next meeting and duly report the results to you.

Dear God, the woman was mad as a bag of frogs.  Lovely, of course, and terribly helpful, but if looniness was currency, she would richer than Midas.  Louder, too, most likely.  Fortunately, with the flowers sorted, he could put their little community event out of his mind for the evening and spend a few hours with a ripping mystery novel and a few cups of Mrs. Hudson’s excellent herbal tea.  Or not.  Damn, she was out for the evening.  Did he have the fortitude to brave the wilds of the kitchen and get the kettle going himself?  It was a grave risk, for if he left it even a millimeter out of position, Mrs. Hudson would murder him in his sleep and have his tanned hide made into a new handbag and pair of shoes.  However, if he _was_ to die, that was a better way than most to have it occur.  He did so much like to be useful…

__________

When the doors of the church opened, Mycroft made very certain that his slightly wistful sigh stayed safely in his thoughts and pressed a calm, collegial smile on his lips as he turned to greet his visitor.  The smile faltered, then fell away completely as he took in the sight of the person standing just inside the entrance.

      “Hello, Mycroft.”

That voice… if the eyes, the warm, breathtaking eyes were not sufficient clue, the voice… the one he still heard in his dreams… would alone have served to prove that he hadn’t become confused over the years.

      “Gr… Gregory?”

      “Yeah, it’s me.  Not the best presentation of me, I admit, but me, nonetheless.”

If his heart pounded any faster or harder, Mycroft worried that Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t need to murder him to get her new handbag, for he would be dropping dead soon from shock.  Little did he know that Greg was having the same worries, but without the nod to women’s accessories.

      “I… what…”

      “Can I come in?”

      “You… _are_ in.”

      “I mean, more in than I am now?”

No.  Absolutely not.  In the name of all that was holy, absolutely, positively not.

      “Of course, where are my manners…”

Likely the same place as my mind and my courage!

      “… do come in.”

Or disappear back into the night and spare me your… confound it, Gregory Lestrade!  You are still an incubus sent to Earth to vex poor mortal men like me…

      “Thanks.  I…”

As Greg sagged and stumbled, Mycroft rushed forward and only then noticed the small pool of blood that had formed on the church floor.  Unmindful of the amount of said blood that was being transferred to his jacket, Mycroft grabbed the wobbly Greg and steadied him as he marched them both towards the vicarage, where he could better tend to the wounded man.  And, where they could be assured of a greater level of privacy for what was certain to be a difficult conversation.  A man he had not spoken to in years appears at this door, disheveled, hurt and, obviously in need of help and comfort.  It was his duty, of course, to provide that help and comfort and Mycroft Holmes did not, for any reason, shirk his duty.  That he was holding against his body the man his heart still loved did not factor into the equation.  Not at all.  At least… not much…


	2. Chapter 2

_“All my mum had was these little plasters, Mycroft.  You really need something bigger.  That’s a nasty cut.”_

_“They will do.  It is… not as deep as it appears.”_

_“Bollocks.  I know when you’re lying, so don’t even try.  Who did this, Mycroft?  And don’t tell me you fell or something like that, either.”_

_“I.. I have no idea what you are…”_

_“Who, Mycroft?”_

_“I do not know their name.”_

_“What’d I just say about lying?”_

_“Gregory…”_

_“Tell me.”_

_“Andrew Potter.”_

_“That fucking arsehole.  Didn’t I tell you not to walk home past the newsagent’s?  That’s what you did, didn’t you, so him and that mate of his, Toby, were able to get you alone out back where there’s nobody to see.”_

_“I was late at the library and Mummy worries so terribly…”_

_“She’ll worry more seeing you like this!  What’s Rule Number One, Mycroft?”_

_“Gregory, that is unutterably silly.”_

_“What is Rule Number One?”_

_“Always listen to you.”_

_“And Rule Number Two?”_

_“Use my head for more than a hat rack.”_

_“Fucking right.  You’re the smartest person I know, Mycroft, but you don’t pull your head out of your books long enough to use it!  Don’t… what’s the word… strategize!  That’s it.  Everything you see, everything you hear… you’ve got to use all of that for strategy and tactics.  You know if there’s any place the yobs can drag you so they can get in a few hits, they will, so remember where those places are and don’t fucking go there!  Or tell me where you need to go and I’ll walk with you.  Ok… that’s about the best I can do, so let’s get you home and we’ll think about what to tell your mum on the way.  That’ll leave me just enough time to find Andy and Toby and move their noses to different positions on their faces before I have to be home for dinner.”_

_“Please, Gregory… I abhor violence.”_

_“That’s what you have me for!  I don’t mind it at all and the thought of doing a bit of violence to those bastards is just a little joy for my day.  They’ll think twice about bothering you again.  Think three and four times about it, too.”_

\----

      “Think I’ll live?”

      “I am bit more concerned about, as they say, the other guy.”

      “HA!  This time, that’s actually not a worry.  At least, not yet.”

      “Gregory…”

      “I always get the last swing, Mycroft, you know that.  Be in my bloody grave and I’ll be reaching out to punch whatever evil bugger saw me put there in the first place.”

Mycroft’s soft sigh was achingly familiar to Greg’s ears, as familiar, actually as the sensation of Mycroft’s fingers on his skin.  They’d patched each other up more than a few times when they were younger and Mycroft hadn’t lost a bit of his technique after all these years.

      “What happened, Gregory?”

      “Oh, a little disagreement with a… business associate.”

      “One who thought a disagreement could be solved by shooting you?”

      “Who said I was shot?”

      “Have you not met Mr. Arm?  I would have thought you would have, at least, exchanged pleasantries as he assisted you lifting your morning coffee.  If that is still your preference.”

There was nobody in the world, not a soul, who could make him smile the way Mycroft did.  It had always been that way, too.

      “The blacker the better.  And what do you know about bullet wounds and the like?  Can’t imagine a lot of people getting shot out here in Ruraltania.”

      “Actually, I did a course in first aid.”

      “They don’t teach you about blokes getting a chunk of their arm taken out by a bullet in a first aid course, Mycroft.”

      “They do if you are working in an area where such a thing is likely to happen.”

      “I haven’t seen much of your little hamlet, I admit, but I’m a bit familiar with foul and seedy places and this isn’t one of them.”

Though the shit local people could get up to was mind-boggling.  The amount of porn, drugs and other delicacies they sold to upstanding, righteous country people was staggering…

      “I volunteer occasionally to minister to less advantaged congregations and spend several weeks in different parts of certain cities that might benefit from extra attention from someone who… is not unaware of the realities of life in those parts of certain cities.”

      “Still trying to redeem rough boys like me, huh?”

      “Still trying to help people see beyond what their world wants to impose on them to the good they carry inside and the good they can do for themselves and others because of it.”

Which Mycroft had always tried to do, at least for him, Greg had to concede.  Didn’t work, of course, but that never stopped Mycroft from trying.  Never stopped him having faith that the nasty piece of work that was Greg Lestrade was somebody who could find the good inside himself and be a better man.  Problem was… there _wasn’t_ any good inside him.  Never was, never would be.

      “Well, good luck with that.”

      “Thank you.  I have seen my share of failures, but also many successes and I take strength from that.  But, Gregory… this really should be tended to by a doctor.  Which brings me to asking why that is _not_ where you are now, instead of here.  I was not aware you even knew this is where I lived.”

      “This scratch isn’t that bad.  I’ve had lots worse and patched it up myself.”

      “Do I want to know why that is the case?”

      “Uhhhh… probably not.”

      “I see… Gregory, again I ask, why are you here?”

      “I… I was planning to pay you a visit sometime soon anyway, and…”

      “What is Rule Number Three, Gregory?”

      “You can’t invoke that!  I’m the only one who can!”

      “That is not the way it is actually scripted.  ‘Me’ is a highly general term and can be applied to any who speak the words.”

      “Fuck you and your… legalese.”

      “Now, Gregory.”

      “Don’t hide anything from me.”

      “Very good.”

Mycroft set down his roll of bandages and lifted Greg’s hand to press against the gauze-covered wound, while he turned to pick up the tape and do what he could to slow the spinning of his brain so he could continue on with the conversation.  Gregory was here… here!  And, obviously, in some form of grave trouble.  It shouldn’t bother him, not after all this time and certainly not knowing Gregory’s eagerness _for_ trouble but… it did.  Rather a lot, actually.

      “Look, Mycroft, could we wait until morning to talk about this?  My arm fucking falling off is a bit more pressing now than the reason it’s falling off, don’t you think?”

Which implied Gregory planned on remaining in the area at _least_ until tomorrow.  That was not good news for his brain.  Or… anything else.

      “I would prefer to talk about it now, however, it is understandable, given the circumstances, that you might be too fatigued or in pain to make that possible.  There is an inn on the other side of the village and I feel certain they will have a room to…”

      “I… I was hoping to stay here, actually.”

      “Here?”

      “Yeah.”

      “This is not a hotel, Gregory.”

      “True, but you have people in, now and again, to stay for a bit, I expect.  Visitors for this reason or that. Besides, I’m an old friend!  Old friends always stay with the person they’re visiting, even if it’s to sleep on the sofa and drink all the beer until you put your boot in their arse.  You won’t need to do that to me, though, because I’ll leave the beer alone and you won’t have to worry about reaching for one and just getting a handful of disappointment for your trouble.  So… that’s good with you, right?”

If Mycroft wasn’t already convinced that something was terribly wrong, this would have tipped him squarely over the line.  There was a sharp hint of desperation in Greg’s voice that made Mycroft hesitate to say yes, but the idea of saying no brought an even greater sense of dread along with it.

      “I… I do have an extra bedroom.”

      “Perfect!  This will be great, don’t you think?  You and me, catching up on the news, talking about old times… yeah, we’ll have a brilliant time, just you watch.  You’ll see, you won’t regret this for an instant.”

Actually, Mycroft was already regretting it because it certainly didn’t sound as if his visitor was planning a brief stay.

      “Yes, well… it would not be charitable, I suppose, to turn you out in your hour of need.”

      “That too!  Can’t be uncharitable, a bloke like you.  Goes against the job description!”

      “Quite.  Well, then… I shall retrieve your luggage and see the church secured for the night after I show you to your room.  You should try and rest as much as you can.  I believe I have remaining a few tablets from when I suffered a twisted ankle and I will bring one of those to you to help reduce the pain and let you sleep.”

      “Sounds good all around.  Though, I… I don’t actually have any luggage, so you don’t need to worry about that.  And I’ll move the car in the morning, so you don’t have to worry about it taking up space in front of your lovely church.”

And, then, I have to hide it somewhere or drop it off a good ways away so the police don’t get a stolen vehicle report and trace the car back to me.  Could be a mechanic in the area who wouldn’t mind chopping up a decent car if they could keep the parts.  There’s always one in every town or village who could use a little free money for a quick favor…

      “Yes, I have no doubt our local constables would have questions. They are very vigilant about maintaining the safety of our community and take their responsibilities most seriously.”

Moving that fucking car _first_ thing in the morning.  Nosy cops were the worst.  Maybe this arm was the worst, though.  Fuck but it was throbbing.  And that idiotic stomach was starting to be bastard, too.  It was… why’d Mycroft turn down the heat…

      “Gregory… Gregory, focus on me a moment.”

Not something that was particularly easy as the cumulative effects of his day had caught up fully with Greg and he was beginning clearly to understand the concept of being dead on his feet.  Or on his arse, in this case, since he was sitting down.

      “Sorry.  Just a little tired.”

      “And missing a pint of blood.  Have you eaten today, Gregory?”

      “Uh… yeah?”

      “That is not convincing.”

      “I had breakfast.”

      “Which was coffee and what else?”

      “Air?”

Gently helping Greg to his feet, Mycroft carefully walked him out of the small ground floor bathroom and up the stairs towards the bedroom that normally only hosted other clerics who came to visit the church or his substitute when he did his occasional bouts of volunteer work.

      “Pretty spare.  Looks like what my Gran might sleep in, actually, what with those curtains and that doily thingee on the dresser.”

      “Beggars cannot be choosers, Gregory.”

      “If I beg, though, can I have a shower before bed?”

      “In the morning will be soon enough.  I would hate for you to become lightheaded and fall, for you are quite sufficiently injured for one day.  Now, I shall bring you a set of pyjamas with your pain medication and…”

      “Don’t wear them.”

      “I… I see.  Well, I am informing you that, in _this_ house, we wear our pyjamas and a dressing gown if we come to breakfast garmented in said pyjamas.”

      “You were always so prim and proper.”

      “And I have a housekeeper who would not appreciate checking on you in the night and being surprised by your nudity.”

Though, given it was Mrs. Hudson, she would likely take a photograph or two, but Gregory certainly did not need to know that.

      “Housekeeper, huh?  Alright, then. Don’t want to scandalize any old ladies.  Or you.  Though you do blush the loveliest shade of rose when you’re scandalized.”

Which seeing anew on your cheeks brings back lots of memories of things done and said specifically to _see_ that lovely pink on your skin.

      “How kind of you to remember.  Just a moment…”

Mycroft quickly left the room, cursing the small bit of heat he felt in his face and made short work of finding a set of pyjamas for Greg, as well as a pain pill and glass of water.

      “Thought you’d forgotten me!”

      “I have been gone less than five minutes.”

      “That’s long enough to forget a person if you’ve got a memory problem.  Or get distracted like one of those kids they’re diagnosing now that can’t focus on things very long.”

      “Take you medication, Gregory.”

Greg flashed his most wicked smile and contemplated sticking out his tongue for Mycroft to lay the pill on it, then decided, for a number of reasons, that wouldn’t be his most brilliant idea and took the pill in his fingers instead, popped it into his mouth and chased it will all the water in the cup, turning it over so Mycroft could see it was empty.

      “All gone.”

      “Excellent…”

Especially since his guest’s color was still very poor and the slight tremors in his fingers as he held the cup had nothing to do with the cold.

      “… now, do get some rest, Gregory.  We will speak again in the morning and I can assure you that a hearty breakfast awaits you when you rise.”

      “Lots of coffee?”

      “I shall instruct Mrs. Hudson to have some prepared.  I… I believe we have the various devices and materials for such a thing.”

Knowing Mycroft, he’d tear apart the kitchen tonight looking and run out before dawn, if necessary, to wake the grocer for coffee, borrow a coffee pot from a neighbor and pull out a potter’s wheel and kiln to have a proper cup made and waiting for the results of his racing about.  Some people in the world _were_ actually good and Mycroft was always there leading the pack.

      “If you’ve not got the stuff for it, a bracing cup of tea will work, too.  Hate to have your housekeeper worry that she’s not treating a guest properly.  They usually worry about things like that.”

Mrs. Hudson’s ‘take it or leave it’ philosophy flew in the face of that preconception, but that was another piece of information Mycroft would keep to himself.

      “I shall impress that upon her.  Is there anything further I can get for you, Gregory?  Perhaps something to eat _would_ be a good idea… I had worried your stomach might not appreciate it but, it might be wise if… it would be a simple thing to… yes, let me prepare a little something…”

Greg reached out and gently grabbed Mycroft’s hand to bring what he knew would be a long flurry of mental activity to a halt.

      “Right now, I think sleep is the only thing I need.  I’ll be fine until breakfast, but I promise that if I wake up peckish or feel a touch queasy, I’ll dart downstairs and make little toast or something, alright?”

Mycroft ignored the calming sensation of Greg holding his hand and nodded his agreement.

      “A very sound compromise.  Well then… goodnight, Gregory.  The radio on the nightstand does work if you would enjoy a bit of music before you sleep.  I shall see you in the morning.”

Reclaiming his hand, Mycroft smiled gently at Greg and left the room without waiting for a response.  Then, it was a dash to his small study to pour himself a rather indulgent amount of port and drop into his chair to have a much-deserved breakdown.  Gregory!  Not a word spoken between them since he was seventeen years old and now… now, Gregory was in his house, clearly troubled and reaching out for help.  The depth of that trouble and the degree of the needed help was yet to be determined, however… it _was_ Gregory, so there was little chance this was a minor matter…

And what this had done to him… he was behaving like a child!  His mind leaping to youthful, highly-secret romantic fantasies… he had even used the word love!  Admittedly, it was within the confines of his own thoughts, but the act could not be denied!  He… he most certainly did not love Gregory.  That was ridiculous.  A misstated emotion that leapt to his thoughts due to the startling and somewhat overwhelming feeling of seeing the person who… who had been his dearest and closest friend.  His fierce and unflagging protector.  The only person who he felt safe to talk to about his own troubles, knowing they would be taken seriously and he would never be mocked for them.

They had been inseparable.  He was there, always, to help quell Gregory’s anger and frustration with the world around them and turn his mind, as often as he could, at least, from disastrous decisions.  For his part, Gregory was there, _always_ , to defend him but, also, to reassure him that it was alright to be different.  That those who would punish him for that perceived sin were the wrong-thinking ones and there was no shame in being the quiet boy, the smart boy who was horrid at sports, preferring to spend his time reading or watching old films on the telly.

Later… though he never said it aloud… it was reassurance that it was alright to be _different_.  Gregory was always a keen observer, not as good as him, perhaps, but better at pursuing those observations and turning them to his advantage and _this_ observation was not one he would have missed.  Lingering looks at film stars… male film stars.  Taking books from the library on art, especially those well-provided with photographs, many of which were of fine pieces detailing the beauty of the masculine form.  He never confessed to his leanings, to his urges, but there was no manner by which he could hide such things from Gregory and… it changed nothing.  His friend remained at his side until the day he boarded the train to take him to college.

Which was the hardest, most brutal day of his life.  Not only did he leave behind the best friend he would ever know, he left behind a friend who needed him.  Gregory’s goodness was there, there was no doubt about that, but he needed support and his own reassurance to _allow_ it to show.  To act on that goodness and to make decisions his heart wanted, rather than those his more feral mind said were better choices.  Gregory had a dark streak, a tendency towards the unsavory paths of the world, but that was not all of his nature and… he had left him with no guidance.   No steadying hand.  No voice of conscience.  And, apparently, that abandonment had led precisely to the place he had always feared…

He'd almost stayed.  Gone to a nearer university, though he may have had to struggle, mightily, to pay the cost.  Stayed near home, near Gregory, but… Gregory himself pushed him, pushed him _hard_ , to accept the scholarship and leave.  To go and leave his former life behind.  Find something better, something more suited to his nature… to follow his heart and his dreams, something so very, very few in their community ever had the opportunity to do.  His dearest friend was adamant that he strike out and build the life he’d talked about to nobody but that dearest friend and… though it broke his heart, he had agreed.  He had gone and never looked back, for that could easily bring him racing back to the one person he cared about more than any other.

And… could have come to care about more deeply and in a different way if he had stayed.  Or maybe he had already achieved such by that time… his mind would never let him settle on a firm answer to that question and that he accepted the tribulation as penance for the sin of leaving behind a person in need.  Gregory was… beautiful.  Beautiful, gloriously masculine, strong, clever, loyal, impudent, humorous, intelligent, dominant, full of life… the awakenings of puberty certainly did not fail to notice a specimen as intoxicating as that.  He never believed, and still did not, that his preferences in any manner offended the Lord, but that did not mean they were widely shared.  And Gregory certainly had an eye for a pretty girl, there was no question on that score…

Further… Gregory was his friend.  The friend of a lifetime.  He could never endanger that.  Never give a hint, any inkling that he might, _might_ , be open to pursuing, to exploring the urges that were making themselves known.  He could never tell Gregory how his dreams offered, with shocking frequency, the most tawdry visions of what satisfying those urges would entail and how… utterly joyful it felt to satisfy them with the person who was his friend.  To envision a friend _and_ a lover… the shameful, shameful thoughts his mind entertained at night as he felt his body flush hotly and his cock harden like iron, on its own whim, when even a fleeting thought of Gregory, naked and beckoning arose to tantalize in the most erotic of ways.

All of that he kept secret for he could never threaten the friendship they shared.  Never admit to the disrespect he had shown his Gregory when… when he lay alone in his bed and took physical pleasure from the images in his mind.  When he found release visualizing the most sordid fantasies that centered far too often on one specific person.  To use him in that way, to slake his lusts with the help of Gregory’s breathtaking maleness and his stirring blend of rough sensuality and gentleness… yes, it was inexcusably wrong to use his best and only friend in that manner and, with all else added in, leaving was for the best.

Now… now, he would do his Christian duty and tend to a person in need.  He would minister to Gregory’s body and soul and, as was perfectly proper, enjoy the opportunity to reminisce and share memories of times gone by.  Then, Gregory would be on his way and, perhaps, there would be the occasional phone call or Christmas card in the future.  Or perhaps not.  Regardless, he would do his best for Gregory during the day or so he was here, for he was a human being and deserving of respect and the service of one called to that role.  More, it would be the smallest of payments for pressing him to embark upon this life, a life that he adored and which filled him with a true sense of purpose.  It was the least he could do.  The very, very smallest payback for such a tremendous gift.

And he would keep all other thoughts under quarantine until such time as Gregory was long gone and, again, naught but a memory.  Though… why did that sound as if it would be easier said than done…


	3. Chapter 3

      “The clock says it’s past midnight.”

      “The cock crows thrice at dawn.”

      “If you’ve gone loony, Mr. Holmes, you could give a body some warning.  I’m the one who has to have you taken away to hospital, phone Sherlock to tell him, endure the Bishop when he pays a visit to find out why you went insane and start packing away your things so the next poor vicar they toss my way doesn’t have to stumble over your slippers when going to bed at night.”

Mrs. Hudson was home.

      “I merely thought we were playing at being spies for the evening and I was providing what I hoped was the correct counter-phrase so you would pass to me the secret documents or reveal the location of the hidden enemy base of operations.”

      “Father Patrick asked me just last week if I wanted to switch teams and go work for him, you know.”

      “Father Patrick cheats at cards and still loses, so I do hope you are content for your wages to flow back to me, whichever of our fine constabulary can be spared for the evening or young Rodney, the new librarian, who is surprisingly cutthroat when it comes to cards, despite his rather meek demeanor.”

      “You could show a _little_ worry that I’d leave you crying over a sink of dirty dishes.”

      “Given _you_ would likely go loony at the thought of a stack of fetid dishes, attracting swarms of flies and hungry wildlife, I feel the odds on that particular atrocity occurring are pitifully small.”

      “Look at you, all proud and smug at your little joke.  How much port have you had tonight?”

      “Ah…. a touch.”

      “Mrs. Turner or your brother?”

      “Neither, actually.  I… I received somewhat of a surprise this evening and… well, I suppose I should officially inform you that we have a guest and I am not entirely certain for how long he shall visit.”

Mrs. Hudson narrowed her eyes at Mycroft because the tone he’d used to perform the informing was a highly complex one and not easy to interpret.

      “Alright… what’s wrong?”

      “Not a thing!  Life is glorious and the Almighty shall bring us a beautiful dawn to ring in a joyful new day in but a scant few hours.”

Mrs. Hudson made a show of sniffing Mycroft’s empty port glass for evidence her vicar had been imbibing something with a bit more kick and was rather disappointed that he hadn’t.

      “The wrongness for your ‘not a thing’ must be _catastrophic_ if you’re playing silly buggers with me.  It’s not kids, is it?  Some youth group or children’s choir or something that you forgot to tell me about that will now ruin my day or, heaven forbid, my week?”

      “You have been spared the patter of little feet, I assure you.  In truth…”

Mycroft waved a hand for his housekeeper to take a seat, which she did eagerly, drawing the chair closer to Mycroft’s desk in anticipation of the story.  Something was going on here and she was bound and determined to get to the bottom of it.  Her Mr. Holmes was off-footed and she was not inclined to allow that to continue.  Despite being a bit fussy and pompous, at times, he was a good and kind man who certainly didn’t deserve to be vexed by some unannounced visitor landing on his doorstep.

      “… our guest is a very old friend of mine and one who… is in need of guidance, I feel.”

Friend.  That was not a word her vicar used.  Ever.  Acquaintance, peer, colleague… those were how he described people he knew.  Never friend.  A very old friend, at that.

      “Oh.  Well, he’s come to the right place if he’s in need of guidance.  You do adore your meddling and busybodying, so he’ll get loads of it.”

      “I do not meddle.  I provide spiritual guidance for troubled souls.”

      “Tell your brother that.”

      “I have.  Often.”

      “When he believes it, so will I.  Now… tell me about your friend.”

Mrs. Hudson knew Mycroft’s smiles and that most of them were affected for specific purposes.  There were a tragically-small number, though, that were genuine and didn’t her Mr. Holmes light up like a candle when one found its way to his face.

      “I have known Gregory since we were in primary school.  We were… inseparable, which baffled everyone but the two of us.  A study in opposites, in some ways, but, perhaps, that was why we grew so close.  We complemented each other; fit like a hand in a glove.  The brains and the brawn… or, at least, that was what Gregory liked to boast, which was giving himself little credit for he had a practical intelligence that was most formidable, in its own way.  His brawn was to my benefit, however, as he was happy to serve as my protector from… well, you can imagine the number of boys who found someone like me to be a most appealing target.”

      “Is he… he’s the boy in the photo with you, isn’t he?”

Mycroft’s eyes hardened and held Mrs. Hudson’s until she coughed, with clear intent, to break the spell.

      “I see.  Precisely, how do you know about that?”

      “I wasn’t snooping!  It was _sanctioned_ snooping, at the very worst.  Remember that year you misplaced your Christmas sermon and we had to tear apart the vicarage looking for it?  You set me in here, if you recall, and said to tear the room to the ground if necessary to find your sermon.  That you’d left in your coat pocket, which, in turn, you’d left at the community center when you had to help with the cake sale.  Anyway… I saw it, but didn’t feel it was my place to ask.  Until now.”

Mycroft sighed softly and reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, all the way at the back, to extract a small, framed photograph of two boys, one with a large and brash smile and one with a smaller, more bashful example on his lips.

      “Yes… this is Gregory and me.  We were, I believe, ten years old when this was taken.”

      “He’s got the look of a troublemaker, right enough.  Found lots of it, I expect.”

      “Found and caused far more than his fair share.  Gregory was a bit… Darwinian, at least, from the perspective of the common misconceptions concerning Darwin’s ‘survival of the fittest.’ “

      “And you were the good boy.  Angel and devil… oh yes, I can see that here.  He’s looks ready for whatever devilry might cross his path.”

      “Sometimes, it seemed that way, especially if we take a devil as a form of fallen angel.  Gregory… was impulsive.  Acted quickly to gain advantage, to protect what and who he valued… but he never behaved with needless cruelty.  Never attacked without reason, or what he perceived as a valid reason, flimsy though it might seem, at times.”

      “And you were his little conscience, weren’t you?”

      “My first congregation, though it was but a single soul.  But… what a shining soul, it was.  Beneath the brambles and barrel-fires was a gleaming soul that only needed the support of someone who believed in him, cared for him…”

      “No parents?”

      “Lovely people, do not think otherwise.  However… it was a hard time and a hard place for all of us.  Gregory’s parents each worked two jobs, starting before Gregory left for school and ending, some nights, after he went to bed.  They _did_ care and tried their very best, but… putting food on the table and keeping a roof over their heads left little time for other things.  And, to be fair, Gregory’s personality is very much his own and I suspect they could have done little to mold it into a different form.”

      “But, you could.”

      “Sometimes that is the way it is.  I see it often with those in our community… the power of a single, specific person to promote change in an individual, where all others have failed.  And, as I could reach Gregory… he could also reach me.  Give me the confidence to try new things, to view failure as a chance to learn and grow, to indulge sides of myself that I was reticent to explore… my parents could scarcely pry my nose from a book, yet Gregory would have me venturing hither and yon to investigate new places or activities and not regretting it.  Well, usually.”

      “Can’t say that’s not a good thing for a boy can have.  Shared a lot of secrets, too, I wager.”

Not _all_ of them…

      “But, of course!  Secrets, hopes, dreams… no matter how far-fetched or fragile they might be.”

      “And, now he’s here.”

      “And now, as you say, he is here.”

      “Well, we’ll make him welcome and do what we can to help.  It’s our duty for any person in need.”

      “Yes, it is.  However, I… I am not certain how long he will stay.”

Implying, to Mrs. Hudson, that Mycroft had already decided the bedroom _would_ be in use for a number of nights and was preparing himself for whatever that meant for the household.

      “There’s not a mob breaking down the door to use our spare bedroom, so I suspect he won’t have competition for it in the near future.  Besides, it’ll give the two of you the chance to have some nice, long chats, which is always good for the soul.”

      “Very true.  And, on that note, I believe it is time for me to pay my respects to my pillow, for sleep is _also_ good for the soul.  I have an early meeting with Mrs. Swinburne about her daughter’s wedding and…”

      “Isn’t happening.”

      “The meeting?”

      “The wedding.  Daughter’s having it on with the new lad they hired at the pub and it’s only a matter of time before word reaches the right… or wrong… ears.”

      “Joyful.”

      “Better it gets called off now than later!  Felicia, who’s supposed to do the flowers, isn’t even bothering.  Mrs. Swinburne goes in every other day to change what she wants and Felicia just nods and smiles and doesn’t even take notes because it’s not worth her effort.  Of course, she might regain her interest if a certain rumor is true and there’s a baby celebration in the future…”

      “I do _not_ want to hear this.”

      “Why not?  You’ll be doing the christening and, likely, the very last-minute wedding with a roundly-plump bride.”

      “Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson.”

      “You’re no fun.”

      “It is part of my charm.”

Making little shooing motions with his hands, Mycroft hustled his housekeeper out of his study and followed soon after, once his photograph was again secured and he doused the light.  Tomorrow would come quickly and, meeting about a _possible_ wedding aside, the day would certainly be one to sap his energy.  Hopefully, Gregory was still the polar opposite of a morning person and would not rise with the dawn. 

__________

It wasn’t dawn, but the footsteps approaching the dining room sounded at a respectably-early hour, somewhat to Mycroft’s surprise…

      “I smell coffee and I wager it can smell me.”

Turning at the sound of Greg’s voice, Mycroft tried not to gulp at the sight of his guest, wearing a variation of the mandated morning uniform of pyjamas and dressing gown, consisting of pyjama bottoms, no shirt and a dressing gown that was allowed to gape so a highly-pleasing expanse of manly chest was on display.  Did Gregory not understand the simple basics of breakfast-in-pyjamas etiquette!

      “I… good morning, Gregory.  I hope you slept well.”

      “Like a baby!  Haven’t slept like that in years, actually.  Probably would _still_ be asleep, but the need for coffee, breakfast and a shower was stronger.”

Ringing the small bell on the table, Mycroft smiled at the expected ‘you’re not a king’ from the adjacent kitchen and motioned Greg to have a seat to await their meal.

      “That your housekeeper?”

      “For my sins, yes.”

      “Sounds like she keeps you in line.”

      “A very straight, very purposeful one.  Not a modicum of sloth, untidiness or debauchery am I allowed.”

      “She’ll hate me, then, since I’m all three wrapped in a fairly foul-mouthed package.”

      “Let us hope the thrashings shall be mild.”

Which, from Mrs. Hudson’s snort as she brought in the coffee pot to pour Greg’s first cup, was already a dashed hope.

      “Look at you… think this is a bordello?”

      “Dunno.  Depends, I guess, on whether Mycroft lets a looker like you work a second job.”

Said with Greg’s most scorchingly-sexy grin and the right amount of purr in his voice to make Mycroft’s mind leap into a very impure area and Mrs. Hudson giggle like a schoolgirl.

      “A rascal like you is just what His Majestic Holiness there needs to keep him on his toes.  Too many bland sins floating about this quiet little village to really put his talents to use.”

Greg’s ‘oh, if you only knew the spice-level of my sins’ look was easily countered by Mrs. Hudson’s ‘I’ve got your number, don’t think I don’t’ smirk as she poured his coffee then nudged over the sugar.

      “Just a few minutes or so until your breakfast is ready.  Don’t steal the tableware or you’ll be eating with your fingers.”

The glare she shot Greg made him laugh happily and he decided that this was the perfect person to keep an eye on Mycroft.  Didn’t take a teaspoonful of shit from anyone and good on her for it.

      “I like her.”

      “Mrs. Hudson is an exemplary housekeeper.”

      “And she’s got a kick like an angry horse, doesn’t she?”

Yes.

      “I would have no knowledge of that.”

Shins are not necessarily or appropriately able to bear the label ‘I,’ so said statement bears no specific falsehood.

      “Liar.’

Damnation!

      “I shall not argue, for I know very well that it will gain me no ground.”

      “Glad you remember.  Well… you’ve got a nice set up here, Mycroft.  Comfortable, quiet… just the sort of thing you always dreamed about.”

      “That, I cannot deny.  I have the time I want to read and study, yet give of myself to those less fortunate or who bear troubles for which I might bring comfort.  It is… highly satisfying…”

Greg shook his head and smiled, not in mockery, but in genuine admiration that Mycroft had been able to grab the brass ring.  Not a brass ring many would want, certainly not _him_ , but it had been Mycroft’s fondest wish since they were young and he had not only snatched it, but, rarest of the rare, the reality of that brass ring matched Mycroft’s youthful fantasy.  So often, it was the last bit that brought things crashing down around your ears

      “… which brings me to ask what is troubling you, Gregory.  Your soul is heavy, that is something you cannot hide, I’m afraid.”

Only because I got shot!  Normally, Greg Lestrade is a champion soul-hider.  Mostly, though, because it didn’t actually exist, but that was beside the point.

      “Ummmm… oh, look!  Doesn’t that look fantastic!”

Mycroft pursed his lips in irritation, but waited for Mrs. Hudson to set down their plates and rack of toast before pursuing Greg’s deflection.

      “You arrive here in need of help, but you continue to dance around the reason for that need.”

      “I’m still an amazing dancer, in case you were wondering.”

Gregory had been an _entrancing_ dancer… it was the closest Mycroft had ever come to witnessing sex that did not involve himself… alone.

      “You did enjoy that particular activity quite a bit, as I recall.”

      “Still do!  Visit the clubs when I have a chance and have a little fun.  A few drinks, few hours on the dance floor…”

A few pills of something or other to make the night even nicer, but Mycroft certainly didn’t need to know that.  He’d be… disappointed and that wasn’t the way he wanted his Mycroft’s morning to begin.

      “… and my evening’s made.”

      “I am happy you find time to enjoy yourself.  Was it at one of these clubs that your current woes began?”

      “No.  Like I said… it was a business deal that didn’t go the way I expected.”

      “Details, please, Gregory.”

      “Eat.  Your food’s going to get cold and you’ll get a ladle to the back of the head for that, I suspect.”

      “Gregory…”

Who couldn’t answer because Greg had shoveled a large mouthful of food into his mouth that would take until the next century to swallow.

      “Lovely.  As always, when you are backed into a corner, you attempt to use deflection, charm and stubbornness to repel any who might try to pry from you the truth.”

Scowling while wrestling a mouthful of breakfast wasn’t easy, but Greg accomplished it easily.  However, it faded quickly as he kicked himself for being an arse.  Mycroft was trying to help and this was poor payment for that.  And… Mycroft probably expected the worst already, anyway.  There was enough proof from their history to make that a safe bet.

      “Whaw bt…”

      “Swallow, please.”

      “Sorry.  How about I treat you to…”

Not lunch, you prat!  You have to get a phone, which won’t be cheap in this rural wasteland, and, possibly, pay off a mechanic to take the car and disassemble it beyond recognition, even if the bastard would make good bit of cash off the parts.

      “… is there a place for… you still like those crème-filled things with the chocolate on top?”

Glowing eyes and a tiny smile… if Mycroft tried to say no, he’d be the most ridiculous and unsuccessful liar in the history of the world.

      “I do and with some degree of gluttonous eagerness.”

Honesty wins the day!

      “Is there a bakery or café or something where I could treat you to one and we can talk?  Really talk, I mean.  I’ll even pay for it this time!”

      “This ti… Gregory!  You told me you _bought_ those pastries with… oh, why did I believe you…”

      “It wasn’t my fault the bakery left their rear door open just wide enough for me to slip through and grab one or two off a tray!  If they didn’t want them stolen, they shouldn’t have made it so easy!  I must have stolen fifty of them over time, so they obviously were happy as could be to let a clever lad have his fill, wouldn’t you say?”

      “The fruits of theft fuel the very cells of my body.  The Lord shall smite me mercilessly.”

      “Not now, I wouldn’t think.  I heard somewhere that you replace all your cells every seven years, so I think you’re safe from the baking police or a heavenly smiting.”

      “Rest assured, Gregory Lestrade, I _will_ watch you pay for our pastries and do not attempt to bargain them to a lower cost or seduce the young woman who brings them into letting you have them for free.”

There goes that plan.  However…

      “That means we _are_ going to meet later for a chat?”

Mycroft dabbed his mouth and wanted to say no, they would chat _now_ , but making his guest uncomfortable might make Gregory more guarded and reticent, which would not be helpful if he was to offer counsel.

      “There is a small tea shop near the library that would serve nicely for a private conversation.  And they offer rather scrumptious pastries, as well as both tea and coffee for their patrons.”

      “Perfect!  I’ve got some things to do this morning, but maybe after lunch?  You probably lunch early, so one o’clock?”

      “How can you possibly have things to do in a village you have never visited?”

      “Uhhhhh… I’m a busy bloke, what can I say?”

      “The truth.”

      “One o’clock.  Perfect hour for the truth.  And pastries.”

Mycroft’s sigh was the signal that Greg had won this round, but at the price of reinforcing in Mycroft’s mind that the whiff of dirty deeds was not an imagined thing, and Greg was very aware of that fact.  However, the truth would come out eventually and Mycroft would probably look back on the little whiff with some degree of nostalgic fondness for simpler times…

      “Very well.  One o’clock at the tea shop.”

      “Great!  Rather like this breakfast.  Tell Mrs. Hudson, I am agog at how good a cook she is and am positively salivating in anticipation of dinner.  Now, though… I’d better make a start if I’m to meet you on time.”

Quickly darting from the breakfast table, Greg got halfway up the stairs before remembering he didn’t actually have any clothes that weren’t bloodstained.

      “Ummmm… Mycroft?  I don’t suppose you have any non-clergy clothes that a stylish fellow like me could wear after I scrub the grime off my skin, do you?”

Considering Mycroft was a both taller and leaner than him, Greg doubted this route of questioning had any useful answers.

      “I have a respectable selection, however, since they will not fit your frame, I shall ask Mrs. Hudson to browse through the clothing we collect for charity for something suitable.”

      “Second-hand clothes?”

      “That have been washed and, if necessary, mended.  If, of course, you would prefer to wear my dressing gown all day…”

      “Second-hand it is!”

      “Prudent choice.  I will have Mrs. Hudson place them in your bedroom, so they are available when you are finished with your shower.”

      “Thanks, Mycroft.  I really mean that, too.”

After favoring Mycroft with a ‘no, really, I’m being honest’ grin, Greg continued up the stairs and missed seeing Mrs. Hudson peek out of the kitchen, then enter the dining room once he was out of earshot.

      “He’s done something, you know that, don’t you?”

      “I wish it were otherwise, but yes… yes, I do.”

      “Seems like a habit with him, from what I’m sensing.”

      “And you would not be incorrect.  But all souls can be saved and his is no exception.”

      “If he’ll let you.”

      “Which is always the eternal question.  Free will is a dastardly thing, at times, but the alternative is too terrible to contemplate.”

Wishing suddenly that the colorful young man had chosen somewhere and someone else to bring his troubles, Mrs. Hudson frowned slightly and fixed Mycroft with a serious, warning look.

      “Don’t… just don’t let him drag you down into whatever much he’s swimming in, do you hear me?  Help if you can, but don’t lose sight of your own soul trying to salvage his.”

      “I will do what I must, Mrs. Hudson.  He is my friend.”

      “He _was_ your friend.  You don’t know him anymore… never forget that.”

Giving Mycroft’s shoulder a little squeeze, Mrs. Hudson returned to the kitchen to give her dear vicar time alone and to get the kettle going to make him a fresh cup of tea.  For his part, Mycroft returned his eyes to the stairs and thought about the man who had dropped back into his life with all the fanfare of a traveling circus.  Mrs. Hudson was wrong, of course.  He _did_ know Gregory and there was both good and bad in that.  The good was that he had tools to reach the heart and soul of this man; the bad was that their effects seemed transitory, if what he heard and saw, now, was evidence.  He had to try, though, with all his tools and with all his might.  He would not lose his soul for trying, but he _would_ see it wither if he let his friend descend further into darkness and lifted not a finger to prevent it.

Though, knowing Gregory, an entire hand of fingers would be necessary. Two hands, perhaps, and a brace of toes, besides…


	4. Chapter 4

      “… now they’re demanding back the money they put up front and I don’t have to tell you how that’s going down.  This is bad, Greg.  Word starts to spread that deals are being done dirty and… they want your head for this, so keep that head out of London until… I’ll do what I can, but no promises.”

Nothing less than what Greg had expected, but he’d held out a little hope that someone would give him the benefit of the doubt.  You work with people for years, prove yourself, but it was always the weasels how had their ear in the final minutes of the game, wasn’t it?  You’re only as good as your last job, nothing before that counts.  No loyalty… every man for himself.  Always been that way, always would be…

      “You’re a mate, Anderson.  Run my bank accounts and see if they’ve been fiddled.”

      “Want me to check Dimmock’s, too?”

      “Glad to know I’m not the only one who believes he fucked me over.”

      “The way his mouth has been running, it’s a sure thing, at least, to those who aren’t already happy to see you crippled.  They’re not the majority yet, but even those who smell something funny here will cut their losses and leave you hanging if it comes to it.”

Fair-weather friends.  No… never friends.  Just people who would stop and think twice before they put a blade between your ribs.  And that was only because they still had use for you.  Once that changed…

      “Yeah…I know.  See what you can learn, though, ok?  I’ll phone again tomorrow and, hopefully, I’ll have a clean mobile number for you to use.”

      “I’m on nights tomorrow, so make it late.”

      “Ok.”

Greg snarled as he set down the receiver of one of the two remaining public phones in the village, but, in truth, the conversation had gone about as he’d expected.  Anderson was one of the few individuals he could turn to for a little help, though he wasn’t stupid enough to tell the copper where he was at the moment.  A person had to look out for their own skin if Anderson’s was threatened, he couldn’t begrudge the man giving him up.  Though, to his credit, he did think it would have to be fairly nasty and imminent threat for the constable to stab him in the back…

They had a good thing going… he’d pass along a bit of information here and there and, maybe, do a little arm-twisting to get someone else to bring something useful about a case to the local police.  Anderson’s part was to keep the cops off his scent when necessary and pass along information of his own that could be useful to an entrepreneurial individual.  Kept the balance sheet even, which was always best, but now and then they might pool resources to directly do something that was of mutual benefit, like when they had a private ‘conversation’ with some bastard who’d been selling drugs to kids when there wasn’t enough evidence to clap the arsehole in irons.  If they timed things so that he’d just been paid off for his efforts and, then, split that cash between them after teaching a lesson about why you left kids alone if you wanted to keep breathing… well, spoils of war, right?

Next on the day’s list was managing to get some cash together.  Finding a mechanic a village over who didn’t mind a little deconstruction work for the right price hadn’t been hard, but it hadn’t been cheap, either.  Then, there was the phone issue.  There was an electronics shop, actually, within view but it was small and quaint and that meant triple London prices, at minimum.  He had a few tricks to pry some cash out of a bank, but he’d have to be very careful that nothing could come back to him because that could lead to Mycroft and… there was no way he would let any of his schemes come back to hurt Mycroft.  That had always been his most important, unstated rule – nothing hurts Mycroft.  No person, no thing and, certainly not him.

So, get a phone, enough cash for a few days and… emergencies… and be ready to meet Mycroft at the tea shop.  Then, depending on how things went, maybe he could drag Mycroft to what passed for the local pub.  Mr. Holmes might be able to live on tea, but he could use a few pints in his blood to make life a seem a much nicer place…

__________

      “Oh my…”

Greg drained the rest of his uninspiring coffee and waved at the young woman covering their table to bring another.  He’d had a moment of panic over this, seeing the teashop looming in his view after working his small, local bank magic, but shoved it down, girded his loins and strolled in only a minute or two ahead of Mycroft, who took another several minutes to reach the table, since everyone there had to stop their vicar for a word or two.  Then he’d fortified his loins with another layer of gird and let the whole story come out between having their order taken and their order arriving back at the table.  Now, he was sitting across from someone who looked like an android who’d gotten his wires severely crossed, since Mycroft was sitting there ‘oh my’- and ‘oh dear’-ing occasionally as he blinked out some form of distress message to whatever deities were supposed to be keeping an eye on him.

      “Mycroft… you need me to turn you off and on again or something?  Jiggle a few wires?”

      “What?  Oh… no.  I do apologize, I simply… Gregory… this is serious!”

      “Yeah, I know.  Getting shot was my first clue.”

      “Can you not be mature about the issue for one moment and avoid hiding behind humor?”

      “I can but… it’s easier if I don’t.  I know how bad this, Mycroft.  I know a lot better than you do and…look I’m trying to find a way to fix things, alright?”

      “How?  This… Gregory, are you part of…”

That Mycroft leaned forward and motioned him to do the same was the most adorable thing Greg had ever seen.

      “… organized crime?”

Made even more adorable in one fell swoop.

      “Not in the way you’re thinking, probably, with the big cars and expensive suits.  But, I won’t say it’s a ‘gang’ either, because I’m not fourteen years old.  There _is_ some organization to things, though, that much is true.”

      “This is even worse than I thought.  Could you… I will accompany you to whomsoever is in charge of this to explain the situation and your lack of culpability.”

      “Uh, no.  First, you’re not going within a hundred miles of that pack of dogs and, second, it’s more likely they’ll just march me off and let my skull make the close acquaintance of their boots.”

      “I shall not allow it!”

      “I don’t think you’d have any choice, but… I’m working on this.”

      “With a corrupt policeman.”

      “Anderson’s not that corrupt.  Not as bad as some, not by any measure.”

      “If he is failing to do his duty according to the law…”

      “Oh, and you’ve never gone have a chat with one of the local lads about giving one of your flock a bit of a break when they’ve been caught out at something?  And they made the problem go away for you?”

      “That… that is an entirely different matter altogether.”

      “No, it’s not.  Break the law, you get the penalty.  I don’t think it’s in the legal code that you can get off with a stern word because the vicar swans in and vouches for your good character, which seemed to have failed you when you decided taking someone’s wallet wasn’t the worst idea in the world.”

      “I… I have only intervened when there was true contrition and a desire to make amends for the misdeeds.”

      “That would happen anyway, most likely, when they went before the judge, but you save them a police record.  And the police allow it.  Probably get an extra donation, too, for the widows and orphans fund.”

      “If you are implying bribery…”

      “I’m implying things get done to make life run as smoothly as possible for everyone involved.  It’s no different here.  Anderson keeps heat off my neck and I see he gets the chance to get a few extra bastards off the streets.  And, because he knows things… and people… he can feel about for what people are thinking and doing, put a word in the right ears and, hopefully, find some actual proof that it wasn’t _me_ that cocked this up.  Or stole their money, which is what would really get my skull caved in permanently.”

Pouting Mycroft was adorable, too, and Greg wondered how he’d forgotten just how cute Mycroft could be when he was on the losing side of an argument.

      “Regardless… consider that your only assistance in this matter is a questionable constable and… why, Gregory?  Why would you do this?  Why would you do _any_ of it?”

      “A man has to make a living.”

      “Balderdash!  Crime is not making a living!”

      “That’s shit and you know it.  How many people did we know when we were young who kept themselves from sleeping rough through a bit of crime now and again?”

      “That is…”

      “An entirely different matter.  Heard that once already today… at this table, from you… and it’s still not true.  We knew lots of kids and their parents who did this or that when they had to in order to keep clothes on their backs and food in their mouths.  Maybe they’d rather do things differently, but they did what they had to do and if you tell me you look down on them because of that…”

      “You know that I don’t, however, there is a staggering difference between theft and the like for survival versus the same simply for personal gain.”

      “Hey!  I’m surviving, aren’t I?”

      “Without a single worry about clothes on your back or food in your mouth.”

      “You don’t know that.”

      “Your clothing was not second hand, patched or of the lowest quality.  You spoke of going to clubs and I would wager that is not an activity free of expense.  You are not living hand-to-mouth, Gregory, so do not try and use those who do to support your pretensions of noble criminality.”

      “Hey!  Don’t sermonize me!”

      “I will if it is warranted.  There are genuinely desperate people in this world, you know that very well, and it is dishonorable to use their hardships for selfish purposes.  You are better than that, Gregory Lestrade and would do well to remember it.”

      “No, I’m _not_ and _you_ would do well to remember _that_.”

      “It is my duty to remember because you so often forget and someone must remind you.”

      “Oh, and I see you so fucking often that that’s a lot of help.”

The thunderous and incredibly awkward silence that descended on the table felt as if it was crushing their lungs and each man berated themselves for letting things go in this direction, which skirted issues that neither of them wanted to wade into because they would be up to their _necks_ in those issues, which would just crush them harder.  It didn’t surprise either of them that Mycroft spoke first, since he was the one who most hated to leave matters in silence.

      “I… I believe that is a conversation more appropriate for another time.”

      “Yeah, maybe so.”

      “Very well, let us return to the proximal problem, shall we.  Could you… could you repay the monies lost?  Even if you make clear that you are not to blame, would that not set matters aright?”

      “Mycroft… I wasn’t joshing about not being flush.  I mean… no, it’s not like when we were kids, but I’m not flashing around large rolls of banknotes.  I’ve got expenses, responsibilities…”

Greg wasn’t certain why Mycroft’s got large but he didn’t have long to wait to find out.

      “Gregory…do you have a family to support?”

      “What?  Oh… oh god no!  No, no kids walking around my genes.  At least, none I know of.”

      “I merely asked because the term ‘responsibilities’ is somewhat a meaningful one.”

      “Yeah, um…. I guess it is.”

      “I would appreciate knowing, then, its context.”

      “It’s not… ok, I can’t say it’s not important, but could we…”

      “Gregory…”

Mycroft was extremely happy to see the look on Greg’s face because that specific look meant honesty was coming even though his friend was somewhat trepidatious about speaking it.  Usually… that meant good things…

      “Fine.  It’s… I bought Mum and Dad a place in London.  Got them out of our old flat and into something… safe and decent.  Nice, clean area with parks and little cafes and shops… even one of those independent cinemas a few blocks away that shows lots of the sorts of films they always loved.  Not cheap and with the ongoing taxes and maintenance… fuck me, stop looking at me that way.”

Because that was Mycroft’s proud face and it was one that always made him feel like maybe, just maybe, all that shit Mycroft talked about him having a good soul was true.  Which it _wasn’t_ , so feeling that, even for a moment, he could someday be as good as Mycroft believed made him squirm.

      “It is a wonderful thing you have done, Gregory, and I am supremely gladdened to hear that your parents are both well and enjoying a life they so richly deserve.  I have no doubt, not a bit, that they are tremendously proud of you and love you so very dearly.”

Greg visibly squirming in his seat was highly reminiscent of many such instances when his good deeds were highlighted, something that Mycroft had always been eager to do.

      “Yeah, well… they deserve something for having a shit son like me and not tossing me out with the rubbish like they should have a long time ago.”

And, as was his pattern, off goes his oldest friend to quickly try and paint himself with the blackest brush possible to distract from the flash of heart he had shown.

      “You have been the light of their life since the day you were born and you are well aware of that fact.  I am very happy to hear that they are comfortable in their golden years, though… they worked so hard for so very long…”

Which was why Greg had stashed away cash from every deal, hustle, crime, theft, etc. so that he could make their old age something other than work, worry and more work.  They worked their fucking fingers to the bone and could only ever hold on by their very fingertips… it wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair and it cut him to the bone every time he got a new pair of shoes or a gift for his birthday that he knew they’d had to sacrifice even further to make happen.

      “… if you do not mind, I would appreciate their address so I might send them a note.  I have such fond memories of them and would like to pass along my good wishes.”

They’d fucking love that.  They would grin like loonies and want all Mycroft’s news and be over the moon to share their own… which, fortunately, didn’t contain any useful details about what their useless son did beyond ‘business.’  And Mycroft wouldn’t say anything to burst their rather deluded bubble, so it _should_ be alright…

      “I can do that.  They’d like to hear from you, I suspect.  Always thought you would go far in this world, though I’m not certain this is what they expected…”

Waving his hand around the teashop, Greg grinned at the serene expression that settled on Mycroft’s face.  To Mycroft, this _was_ what he had always wanted and would gladly share his happiness with the people who’d taken an interest and supported him to get to this point.  Unlike…

      “… but I suppose I should be polite and ask about your mum.  How is she?”

Roasting on a spit, hopefully.

      “Ah, Mummy… I am sad to say that Mummy passed away two years ago.”

Shit!

      “I’m sorry, Mycroft.  I really am.  I was trying to be a bit evil, given… well, given everything, but I didn’t think… I really am sorry.  What happened?”

      “Cancer, I’m afraid.  I was able to move her here for the final year of her life and provided a restful environment for her to heal from the various therapies she endured.  It was good to be able to offer her that comfort in her final months.”

But, every bit of the anguish from all the years before that point was clearly shining in Mycroft’s eyes and Greg set down his coffee before he clenched his fists hard enough to shatter his cup.

      “And, let me guess, Sherlock was nowhere to be found.”

The shine in Mycroft’s eyes flared, but he quickly doused it to give no indication of how sharply Greg’s words had cut.

      “Sherlock… his life is in London and… it has not been an easy one.”

      “Why not?  He was the one who got to swan off to a poncy public school so he could get a leg up in life.  The fact he pissed down that leg more often than not shouldn’t have made too much difference as that’s what most of those useless inbred toffs do who go to those sorts of schools.”

      “Another discussion not appropriate at present.”

      “Which means that, no, he didn’t come and help you take care of your dying mother.”

      “No… that is not entirely true.”

      “Let me guess, he came to the funeral.”

      “He did… but he also visited monthly, something that made Mummy very happy, which was beneficial to her well-being and state of mind.”

Greg scowled at Mycroft, who smiled weakly in return.  Gregory was one of the few people who knew his history with Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson being another, and he was well aware that their relationship seemed somewhat flawed and imbalanced.  He did not see it that way, necessarily, however, he also was not blind to how a third-party would view things.  And… he was also not blind to how he sometimes felt that way, also.

      “So, he stops in for cake and sherry, while you deal with the day to day reality of taking care of a very sick person who doesn’t have the kindest personality to begin with.”

      “I made my peace with Mummy long ago, Gregory.”

      “You shouldn’t have.  It should have been _you_ she put forward for that school program.  Should have been you that got to go to a good school.  Those are the sorts of places that lead to the really top colleges, too.  That _should_ have been you because you fucking would have appreciated it and made use of the opportunity, unlike that brother of yours.  How many times did he nearly get tossed out for beign a prat?  Six?  Seven?”

      “I was already thirteen years old, Gregory… at best, I would have a handful of years in residence.  Sherlock was seven, which made it a greater opportunity than I would have experienced.  I read through the application materials; they preferred to fund younger students for that very reason.”

      “But older ones weren’t excluded!  You were perfect!  Smart, serious about your studies…”

      “Which I put to good use at Uni.”

      “And how hard did you have to work to get that funded?  How much paperwork did you fill out, interviews did you sit through, buses did you ride, essays did you write to get the money?”

A gargantuan amount… it had been backbreaking, demeaning, nerve-wracking to finally win a scholarship that would pay his education at a quality school.  He had done it, though.  Gained acceptance and funding to highly-regarded institution and one that had exemplary theology and philosophy programs, as a bonus.  He _had_ achieved through hard work and the blessings he had been given at birth, which, ultimately, was all that mattered.

      “I am not upset that I had to earn my chance.  One often has to work for what one wants.”

      “True, but it could have been another way if your fucking mother…”

      “Who is deceased and immune from your chastisement, so further motion along this road will gain us nothing but further acid in our stomachs and I, for one, am quite at my limit.”

Greg was a LONG way from his, but Mycroft was right about one thing – now wasn’t the time nor the place for this conversation.  It would come, though, he’d see to it.  If he knew one thing for certain, it was that Mycroft _did_ carry a gutful of acid about all of this and needed a chance to let some of it pour out.  He had a few ideas on how to make that happen, but… well, he’d have to see if he’d be able to use any of them, all things considered.

But he’d try, that much was a promise.  Mycroft had his blind spots and the biggest one was about his family, something which the practical, realistic brain of Greg Lestrade stepped in to bring perspective about more times than he could count.  When Mycroft’s father died, only weeks after Sherlock was born, the weight of the world seemed to fall squarely on his friend’s shoulders.  Goodbye attention from mum… Sherlock was the special one, the final, precious tie to Mycroft’s dad, at least in his wretched mother’s eyes and Mycroft was… the other one.  Well, fuck off Mrs. Holmes, wherever your cursed soul is floating about… Mycroft is nobody’s other one.  He’s a brilliant, wonderful person who was always far too good for the likes of you and pampered prince Sherlock.

      “Ok, fine.  All that gets set aside… I’ve got other things clawing at me right now, anyway.”

Which snapped Mycroft back from the darkened, shadows corners of his mind and refocused him on the present and their very real, very current problem.

      “That you do.  Oh, Gregory… I have often prayed for you, beseeched our Lord to keep watch over and guide you for I was no longer there to stand at your side…”

      “And I’m still alive and scandalously handsome, so I’d say job well done.”

      “You trod the path of crime which now threatens both that life and that handsomeness, so I question your assessment.”

      “Lots of people tread the path of crime, Mycroft.  Bankers, lawyers, accountants, politicians, all those fucking corporate types… arseholes who shatter people’s lives to put a few extra quid in their own gold-lined pockets.”

      “You cannot expect me to…”

      “And what about the little thefts and lies that I bet all of your happy congregation do.  Take a stamp from work to mail a letter.  Do favors for friends and family that aren’t necessarily proper or legal.  Yeah, I don’t do everything according to the law, but that just makes me part of the majority.”

      “That is a ludicrous argument.”

      “No, it’s a good one and you’re just pigeonholed into that tiny moral box you love so much to admit it.  Yeah, I break the law.  Yeah, I’ve done things even I admit I’m not proud of, but… I’ve never done anything I thought _you_ would hate me for, ok?  Is that good enough for you?”

The fervency in Greg’s eyes was as effective in quelling Mycroft’s rising urge for debate, and sense of moral outrage, as were Greg’s final words.  His oldest and dearest friend was a criminal, that simply was not in question, but… as with everything, Gregory complicated the situation by striving to remain within his own rules and ethical guidelines.  That _he_ , in some small way, was enmeshed in them helped salve the pain in his heart from knowing how far his Gregory had fallen… however, the man was still very much within reach of someone with long arms and a great deal of will…

      “I shall grant that, as ever, you embrace the gray areas of the world with far greater ease than myself and that is not, necessarily, a tragedy.”

A tiny grin bloomed on Greg’s lips and it grew when it coaxed one out of Mycroft, as well.

      “No, it’s not.  But… I won’t pretend to believe you’re ok with all of this, Mycroft.  I know you better than that and I know it won’t change.  It’s ok, always has been.  Is it ok enough, though, for you to let me to stay a few days until I can find a way to sort out this mess?  I won’t be a bother, I promise, but if you don’t think you can…”

      “Gregory, of course you can stay.  My only concern is your associates learning your location.  I shall not put Mrs. Hudson or any of our community in harm’s way.”

      “I wouldn’t expect you to, not for a moment.  They don’t know about you and I didn’t even tell Anderson where I was.”

      “Could not your car be traced?”

      “Uh… about that…”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and held up a hand to halt whatever distressing story was about to spill out over the floral-print cloth covering their table.

      “I shall not inquire further.  But, I _will_ do all that I can to help you, Gregory.  Together, we shall see this matter settled and… well, it shall also give us time to discuss your future.”

      “Marvelous.  Lectures from my guardian angel.”

      “I shall fluff my wings and diligently script my speeches in preparation.”

      “You do that.  And… thanks, Mycroft.  You could have tossed me out on my arse, but you didn’t and… I know I can be stupid and sarcastic so you may not always believe it, but I truly am grateful for this and… for the fact that you never gave up on me.”

      “Never, Gregory.  I have never and will never give up on you...”

Reaching over, Mycroft clasped Greg’s hand and gazed into his eyes, perhaps, a second or two longer than was necessary for comfort and reassurance.

      “… now, might I impose upon you for a bit more tea?”

With distinct reluctance, Greg let Mycroft take back his fingers, but gifted him with a large and stunning smile for their small, shared moment.

      “As much as you like!  Another of those decadent pastries, too?”

      “Oh, I shouldn’t…”

      “Which means yes, you’re dying for one, but hate appearing greedy.  Since I admire a bit of greediness in a man, you get tea _and_ a pastry and I won’t take no for an answer.”

      “I am defeated by the vehemence of your edict.”

      “I do prize my vehemence.  Right up there with my good looks and shapely arse.”

      “Gregory… do behave.”

      “Why?  No fun in that, is there?”

Winking at Mycroft, Greg turned to get the server’s attention, which gave Mycroft a moment to shake his head at the silliness.  The years had changed his friend very little and… not all of that was lamentable.  And, if he was to be honest… Gregory’s arse had changed very little, also, much to the consternation of his still impressionable libido.  Something which was going to be besieged until this truly lovely creature found his way out of trouble and back to his own life in London.  Though, a bit to his shame, that particular notion did not sound as much of a victory as it should…


	5. Chapter 5

      “Ooh, that’s a story worth telling.  Your Greg’s certainly got himself into a fine mess, hasn’t he?  Told you that would be the case.”

While Greg remained in the village to purchase a few items of clothing and toiletries, Mycroft returned to the vicarage to gently break it to Mrs. Hudson that they would have a guest for an unknowable amount of time and to prepare herself accordingly.

      “Yes, though I would appreciate it if that story did not pass beyond these walls, for reasons I’m certain are most clear.”

      “Oh, don’t worry about me having a tea and scandal afternoon to let the ladies know our business.  At least, not for this.  Can’t let anything get out there to lead the Mafia here to us!”

      “Gregory is not part of the Mafia, Mrs. Hudson.”

      “Are you certain?”

      “I… yes, I believe I am.  He denied membership in organized crime, so that would take that organization off the proverbial table.”

      “Think he was telling the truth?”

Ever a question with Gregory, at least for the small details…

      “For the general framework of the situation, yes, I do believe he was honest.  He knows very well how angry and disappointed I would be to find he had lied and would avoid that, if possible.”

      “Doesn’t like it when you’re mad at him… interesting.”

      “Why is that interesting?  People usually dislike upsetting their friends.”

      “Criminals don’t.”

      “And how many criminals do you know?”

      “A few.”

      “Name one.”

      “My nephew Terrence.”

      “Having improper relationships with farm animals, while indecent, does not, per se, classify him as a criminal.”

      “He’s got a record now, so it counts.”

One day, Mycroft prayed he would have an argument with Mrs. Hudson where she did not lead him into a blind alley where the only hope of escape was scaling the walls like that Spiderman fellow, but today was certainly not that day.

      “I concede the point.  In any case…”

      “Will Greg be needing his own bedroom or is he going to share yours.”

Picking your vicar up from the floor after he’s spilled off his chair wasn’t a job Mrs. Hudson wished on anyone, let alone herself, but tasks must be borne bravely and without complaint.

      “You could take pity on an old woman’s back and give me some help, you rotten thing?”

Perhaps a small amount of complaint.

      “I… oh, dear me… I do apologize.”

      Mycroft staggered a bit to his feet and sat again in his chair, struggling to clear out the cobwebs and push the last minute of conversation squarely out of his mind.  Unfortunately, his mind was having none of it.

      “Mrs. Hudson, why on Earth would you suggest such a thing!”

      “Because you fancy him.”

      “I most certainly do not!”

At least, not that I will admit to you or anyone.  Ever.

      “It’s silly to try and lie to me, Mr. Holmes, because I’m far too familiar with your lies not to spot an enormous one when it falls out of your mouth.  There’s nothing illegal about it!  Not anymore, at least.  And, though his morals might be a bit shady, he’s certainly a prime specimen of manliness, so why not enjoy yourself while he’s here?”

Why not?  Let me count the reasons.  Stop me when I’ve reached one trillion, will you?

      “Gregory is my friend, Mrs. Hudson.  Further, he is a troubled soul in need of guidance.  Both preclude any form of relationship between us other than that which bind any of the brotherhood of man.”

      “What does that even mean?  It wasn’t near your best effort at whirly-wordiness, so I suspect I’ve hit something and hit it hard.  He’s a randy fellow, that much is obvious… very obvious, at that… and I wager he’d be very agreeable to a between-the-sheets relationship with a handsome gentleman like yourself.  So, get on it!”

Mycroft had heard, from countless colleagues, the perils of being unmarried clergy in areas where the aged female population was high.  Each and every of the old dears believed themselves a matchmaker and were dead set on rescuing their vicar from the drudgery and loneliness of bachelorhood.  However, he’d never heard it framed from the reality of a vicar that would prefer a male, rather than a female, to alleviate the drudgery.

      “I am not seeking to embroil myself in a romance at this time, Mrs. Hudson and…”

      “Who said anything about romance!  Randiness is a completely independent thing.”

Oh good heavens…

      “Very well, I am not seeking to embroil myself in randiness at this time, especially with someone like Gregory, given the situation.”

      “So, if the situation was different, randiness would be rampant?”

      “Are you hoping to film it to fund your retirement?”

      “I’m sure I’d make loads selling that to the right people, however, I’m more concerned about you.  It’s been _awhile_ , Mr. Holmes and that’s not good for a young, fit man like yourself.”

Evil woman.  Though, to be fair, it had been an _exceedingly_ long while and the brief interlude he’d had with the professor who took the bank manager’s lake cottage for a summer had been pleasant enough, yet terribly forgettable when it was over.  Perhaps sexual relationships between two sedate, somewhat cool, individuals had the potential to erupt in scorching flames of unquenchable passion, however, they had never quite found the particular fuse for that degree of ignition.  And, oddly… it was something he believed he _could_ have with someone, but had not and likely would never find the right person to make it happen.

      “And fit I shall remain, for there is no evidence that celibacy has a detrimental impact on health.”

      “Maybe not, but why risk it?  Do you need some books or something?  Remind you about what to do and things like that?”

Where was the heavenly lightning bolt of smiting when he needed it?  Standards had become lax everywhere, it appeared…

      “No, that is quite unnecessary.”

      “Good, that means you’ve still got that information in your brain and it’s just sitting ready to be used.  I wonder if Mr. Watkins has some of those earplugs for sale?  I probably should buy a pair or two and…”

      “ _Also_ unnecessary.”

      “If you think you’re shipping me off to visit my cousin Winnie while you two have you wicked way with each other, you’re loony!  She’s awful.”

      “Who’s awful?”

Mrs. Hudson’s brilliant smile greeted Greg’s voice and Mycroft had to hope the vicar-housekeeper confidentiality clause, which didn’t exist but should, would hold as firmly as Mrs. Turner’s corset.

      “My cousin Winnie.  Dreadful thing.  Goes on and on and on about her dogs and they aren’t even fun ones!  Some of those purebred this’s or that’s with their nose in the air who sleep on silk cushions.  Can’t take one out for a run through the grass or have them chase a ball or anything.  This one was suggesting I toddle off to visit her and that nearly cost him the date and walnut buns I was considering making today.”

      “Mycroft!  The buns!  Tell me you apologized for that gross violation of… family visitation suggestions.”

It took a moment for Mycroft to answer as he was swallowing down the nervous surge from being surprised, the worry that Greg had overheard their conversation and a long lick of lust seeing his guest wearing new clothes that fit his body far more delightfully than his borrowed garb, especially in the trouser area.  And, he had no doubt that Mrs. Hudson was noticing that, also, and adding it to her ammunition box.

      “An apology was at the very tip of my tongue when you arrived. I take it you found suitable clothing?”

Not quite what Greg was used to, but he looked, now, like any of the law-abiding, upright citizens in the little hamlet and far less likely to draw the attention of the local police than if he wore the things he normally had on his back.  Which were very stylish, though not at all flashy or gauche, thank you very much.

      “I did.  Shoes to shirt, I’ve got clothes and the proper tools to keep my teeth clean and hair combed.”

      “Excellent.  Oh… is that the time?  I promised to look in on Mr. Spooner this afternoon and I’d best get to it.”

      “Bring him a jar of my jam.  That’ll set him right.”

      “He has a broken hip, Mrs. Hudson.  How is jam a curative for that?”

      “Are you a doctor now?”

Sighing loudly, Mycroft rose and took a jar of Mrs. Hudson’s special jam from the cupboard and held it up for approval.

      “Good choice.  His daughter brings fresh bread when she pops in with his dinner, so that’ll be a nice treat.  Looks heavy, though.  Why don’t you bring along Mr. New Clothes so he can help carry it?  It’s not a short walk, though, it’s a very, quiet lovely one out to old Spooner’s house, and Greg here can have a good look at our natural splendor.”

Mrs. Hudson’s message-laden smile earned her Mycroft’s standard ‘why me’ roll of his eyes and, after a quick assurance to Greg he’d return in an hour or so, he fled the scene, clutching the jam as if it was a talisman against romantic meddling.

As soon as he was out the door, Mrs. Hudson’s smile vanished and she fixed Greg with a glare that made him squirm as much as when his mum gave him similar ones after hearing from school about some new trouble he’d gotten into when he was a lad.

      “Alright you… let’s put things on the table shall we.  Mr. Holmes told me what’s going on and I’m warning you now that if anything happens to him, if his reputation or work suffers, I’ll have you dead, dismembered and fertilizing my flowers with no one the wiser.”

Mrs. Hudson would do well in London’s criminal world.

      “Fair.  I did wonder if he’d tell you.”

      “I’ve been with that man since the day he arrived and I plan on being here for every year he remains, too.  Mr. Holmes has his… idiosyncrasies… but he does his very best and his very best is _very_ good indeed.  Let me be clear… I won’t see his devotion and hard work go to the devil because you brought the devil here with you in your pocket.”

Running his fingers through his hair, Greg took a moment to give thanks that this was out in the open because he preferred things that way sometimes, this being one of them.  Trying to hide the situation from Mycroft’s housekeeper wouldn’t have been easy, so having her in on this made life easier.  And it was another pair of eyes and ears keeping watch that the devil _wasn’t_ riding in on some flaming fucking horse looking for his head…

      “I don’t want to see that either.  Mycroft… he’s been a good person since he was in primary school and what he’s gained in life because of it certainly doesn’t deserve being thrown in the bin because he had a friend like me hovering about like bad smell.  This is a good place for him, I think; I asked about in the village and people seem to like him.  Or, rather, they respect him, think he’s a good fit here and are happy he’s the one up there on Sundays and not some dreary, doomsaying, ‘you’re all sinners you, miserable fuckers’ sort of chap.  I don’t think many or any of them know him well enough to say they ‘like’ him, though, the way you might say you like a friend.  Seems to move among everyone without really connecting on that emotional level that you need to build a friendship.”

      “Can’t say that’s not true. Mr. Holmes is a private man, that’s for certain.  Doesn’t refuse an invitation, but that’s mostly because it’s his job to hobnob with people and be part of the community, but he doesn’t socialize, really.  Not one to sit at the pub and have a few or encourage any real friendships.  It’s not his way and there’s nothing wrong with that.  Might help in some regards, actually, as it probably makes it easier to keep perspective and not let his emotions cloud a situation when a body needs real advice and not someone saying what they want to hear because they don’t want to upset them.”

Except that made for a lonely vicar, at times, no matter how much he tried to hide it.  Not the sort of lonely that made you sad and pitiful, but the sort that made you wistful for how life might be if things were a little different.  Though, if this bandit could be trusted to tell the truth, which was still a very large _if_ , then maybe he could, at least, be one to encouraged to stay in contact once this business was settled so her Mr. Holmes could have a person to phone when that wistfulness got a little heavy in the heart.  Or someone to shag when something _else_ got a little heavy in his trousers.  Or both.  Both was the best, but she wasn’t going to be greedy.

      “That’s how he always was, too.  Polite, but not one to reach out and try to make friends.  Of course, where we grew up, reaching out would likely see your hand cut from your wrist and sold to the butcher for sausage meat.”

      “His Majesty said you stepped in to keep his hand on his wrist, though.  Glad to see you did _something_ useful in this world.”

      “That was about it!  Completely misspent and misbegotten life, except for keeping Mycroft’s head on his shoulders.  And, to boast a moment, it seems that had a fairly successful outcome, so well done me.”

      “Cheeky bugger.  But, it wasn’t as if he had any help from home, so I’ll thank you for it.  That mother of his…”

      “What a cunt.  She probably could have swallowed bleach and not have it clean that dark soul of hers.”

Well, that was some common ground found and Mrs. Hudson felt a little better about the person sitting in front of her.  Knew a horrid person when he saw one and not afraid to say it plainly.  Mr. Holmes needed a few of those in his circle, right now only having one.  Her.  And that thick head of his didn’t always want to listen…

      “He suffered mightily with that crone in his life, that’s true.  Terrible, terrible time when she came to live here.  Poor man had nowhere to hide and no peace from her misery.  So, tell me… what’s your verdict on that brother of his?”

      “Twat.”

      “That’s two for two, then.  Sherlock’s… foolish boy has a world of potential and wastes it all.  Ruining his brain with drugs when he had a good education and could do so much…”

      “Drugs?  Shit… when I knew him, admittedly he was young, but he was just an obnoxious, arrogant little brat who got the cream when Mycroft got the empty milk bottle.  I didn’t know he’d gotten into drugs.”

Because if he had, he would have found that stupid sod and kicked some sense into him.  Nothing good came from being on drugs… at least… not the sort that consumed your life – body, mind and dignity.  All the advantages he had and he kicks them into the rubbish.  Marvelous.  But, in truth, he couldn’t find in within himself to be surprised.  Sherlock never appreciated what he had and when you don’t appreciate your advantages, you don’t value them… you also don’t believe, in your heart, that you’ll ever lose them, either.  Probably still believed Mycroft would race to his rescue every time he fucked up… speaking of…

      “How many times has Mycroft had to drag his arse out of the fire?”

      “Oh, more than a few.  Sherlock’s happy to forget his brother exists until he needs someone to smooth over this trouble or that.  Clergy is good that sort of thing.”

      “And Mycroft never says fuck off.”

      “Pfft.  He races like his pants are on fire to do whatever it takes to see it all sorted and Sherlock off free and clear to get into another mess.”

      “That’s the Mycroft I know well.  Ready to sell his shirt and pants and go naked if it would keep Sherlock from getting his just deserts.”

      “It’s a blind spot, that’s for certain.”

      “So was his mum.  Family, I suppose, is his problem area.”

      “That and dodgy friends.”

      “No argument from me on that one.”

      “Good.  Then… I suppose you can stay.”

      “Was that in question?”

From the look he got, Greg decided the answer was yes and, frankly, he’d been daft not to think that in the first place.

      “Sorry.  Forgot who was in charge.”

      “Don’t do it again.  So… any idea how long you’ll be with us?”

      “No, though I’m going to do my best to fix this as soon as possible.”

A mess like this, though, probably won’t be fixed easily or quickly… well, maybe it was time to ask a few _other_ questions…

      “Who… tell me, Greg, do you have anyone waiting for you at home?”

      “You mean like a wife?”

      “Or a husband.  This isn’t the 1800’s, you know.”

      “True and the answer is no to both.  No one who will miss me when I don’t come home for a few days.”

      “That’s sad.  You should see about changing it.”

      “Probably, but that’s one of those pesky buggers that comes under the heading of ‘easier said than done.’ “

      “That it done, which means you need to try harder.  Which one do you want, husband or wife, or are you flexible?”

Greg’s mind was rocketed back to when he was twenty and his mother cornered him in the loo as he was fixing his hair to go out clubbing.  She’d looked like she already knew the answer, too, just like Mrs. Hudson did right now.

      “I’m incredibly flexible, actually.  Can get my ankles behind my head and everything.”

      “That’ll make someone happy, I have no doubt, but answer the question, you ridiculous coward.”

      “Hey!  I’m not a coward!  It’s just… sometimes that’s not a safe topic of conversation in my line of work.”

      “Another reason for you to get away from it.”

      “The money is a stronger reason to stay in.”

      “Plenty of ways to get money, so that’s rubbish.  But, we’ll figure that part out later.  Right now, answer my question.”

      “Oh my god… fine!  I’m not picky.  Men, women… it doesn’t really matter.”

      “Good.  That’s good.”

      “Why?”

      “Reasons.”

      “Brilliant.”

      “Exactly.  Anyway, you don’t have anyone at home, but is there someone who isn’t quite at home, but might be looking to move that direction at some point?”

      “Is that your nosy old bird way of asking if I’m seeing anyone?”

      “Yes.”

      “Well, that depends on how flexible _you_ are, sexy thing.”

Greg tossed on his best sexy smile and hoped it would distract Mrs. Hudson away from whatever direction this conversation was going because, frankly, his rather active, yet empty, love life had begun to wear a little thin lately, but he was both too young and too busy to want to think about it.

      “If that’s your seducing grin, I’ll tell you for free that you look gassy.”

Distraction tactic fails.  Implement distancing measures.

      “Maybe I am.  I’ll pop up to the loo and…”

      “Keep yourself right there, young man.”

Greg’s move to rise from his chair halted in its tracks and his knees obeyed without his brain’s input, folding him back into his seat.

      “Good.  Now… you and Mr. Holmes… did you two ever…”

Red Alert!  Situation now klaxon critical!

      “Uh… Ever what?  I don’t know what you mean.”

      “If you were stupid, I’d believe you.  It’s a fair question, so answer it.”

      “How about no?”

      “It’s my responsibility to know what might and might not be going on under this roof and how that might impact my working conditions.”

      “Were you a union leader before you started working here?”

      “It’s also my responsibility to take the best care I can of Mr. Holmes and that’s not limited to keeping his shirts pressed and books dusted.  If the two of you had a bit of a romance all those years ago, then…”

      “We didn’t.”

That came out fast.

      “You said that very fast, young man.”

Shit.

      “Maybe because I don’t like people poking into my private business.”

      “You’re _admitting_ there was private business, then.  Details, please.”

      “There wasn’t any private business!  Not a bit!

That was loud.

      “Fellow shouts like that, a nerve’s been hit.”

Double shit.

      “You might as well tell me, Greg, because I _will_ find out and the amount of pain involved will be on par with how hard I have to work to pry it out of you.  Emphasis on pry.  As with pliers.  And teeth.  Or toenails.  I’ve always thought the latter would be particular horrid, but I’m willing to experiment.”

      “What films are you watching?”

      “I did sound ferocious, didn’t I?  Actually, I’ve been reading some cracking spy novels and they’re filled with nasty bits like that.  Mr. Holmes just gives me that face of his, you know the one I mean, so he’s no fun to play with.”

Mycroft’s exasperated face was not one that could be forgotten by any who had seen it and Greg had seen it more than most.

      “So, tell a nosy old bird, Greg… even if it’s only to stop me wondering and, more importantly, _asking_ … why’d you get a touch shouty a moment ago?”

Because Mycroft is even more gorgeous than he was when he was younger and him holding my hand at the tea shop was the best feeling in the entire world.  Because I thought I’d feel _something_ seeing him again, but grossly underestimated how strong that something would be.  Because his eyes draw me in and make me want to do things that will leave us both sweaty, breathless and so spent that we can’t move for a week and all of that is fucking glorious and fucking terrifying at the same time.  How’s that for a reason?

      “Because I know evil things like you.  You try to make gossip where none exists and Mycroft doesn’t deserve that.”

      “Wrong.  I verify my gossip for accuracy before I spread it about.”

      “Right.  Here’s how it is… Mycroft and I are friends and, if possible, maybe I’d like to try and make that an active thing again.  How that would work, I don’t know, but I’d rather it not be pure silence between us like it has been.  Maybe it’s not possible, though.  Maybe it’s best for him if that doesn’t happen.  We’ll… we’ll have to see, I suppose.”

Mrs. Hudson always believed the stereotype of old women as witches came, in large part, from their special abilities, which younger women didn’t have yet.  One was the ability to get rascally boys to drop their defenses and speak from the heart.  This villain seemed to need a real friend as badly as her vicar and, like her vicar, wasn’t doing a particularly good job of hiding that there was more than friendship nestled in his heart.  So, two boys who _might_ have, had the situation been different, reached out to each other to explore that ‘more than friendship,’ now find each other when the situation _is_ different.  This could be very interesting…

      “That you will, but, as long as you don’t do anything to embarrass him or blacken his name, I can’t see any reason Mr. Holmes wouldn’t want to get to know you again.  It’s clear that you two… fit… very well, even after all these years.”

Fit?  Even after years of nothing he still felt more comfortable with Mycroft than anyone else.  There was just something between them, something he couldn’t properly define besides ‘a connection’ that remained and was still strong.  Maybe that’s the way it was sometimes.  A hundred little things came together and hooked you to another person in a way that just didn’t break, no matter the time or distance involved.  Or, maybe that was pure fantasy tripe.  Or maybe… it was one of those things you didn’t fucking analyze to death and simply treasured when it happened to you.

      “It’s all a tragic lie.  Truth is we despise each other, but stay together for the sake of the kids.”

Mrs. Hudson wagged a finger at the grinning man sitting across the table from her and wondered how long it was going to be before he or Mr. Holmes gave some sign to the other, conscious or otherwise, about how they really felt.  She’d wager a very good bottle of gin on the fact that _this_ one broke first, though.  Mr. Holmes had nearly inhuman self-control, but Greg here was a far more volatile type.  The right time, the right place and… well, that was her entertainment tended to for awhile.

      “You’re fortunate you don’t make your living as a comedian because you’d be poor as a church mouse, you horrid thing.  Alright, time to see to important matters - do the shopping and then I’ll get to cooking.  How’s your arm?”

      “Better, actually.  Hurts like a bastard, but seems to be healing well.  Not bleeding through Mycroft’s tidy bandages, at least.”

      “Good, then it’ll carry a small bag, at least.”

      “What?”

      “Off your arse, young man, and collect the shopping bags from the hook by the door.”

      “I’m not doing the shopping!”

      “You’re right.  _I’m_ doing the shopping and you’re doing the carrying.  And, if necessary, smile nicely at the girl who minds the fish area at the market so she gives me the really fresh ones and not the ones even a cat wouldn’t take, because she’s peevish, which is why her husband ran off with that bookkeeper and not because he went mental like she tries to tell people.”

Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to glare his way out of this and, in truth, a nice bit of fish sounded perfect for dinner, Greg made all teenagers proud by sighing at the gross oppression, rolling his eyes and slumping down in his chair to show how he was being brought down by the man before hopping up and grabbing the sacks to hold up like trophies.

      “You still have time to make buns, right?”

      “That I do, and they’ll make a nice nibble before dinner and later tonight when Mr. Holmes has his traditional sip of port.”

      “Port.  Why am I not surprised?”

      “Won’t stop you drinking your share, will it?”

      “Fuck no.  I made my own fermented atrocities when I was too young to buy it myself, and couldn’t steal it, and gagged that down willingly enough.”

      “Whatever you do, don’t put _that_ idea in Mr. Holmes’s mind.  He’s wanted to try his hand at making his own wine and I’ve been very successful keeping that from happening.”

      “Man should be able to make wine in his own house.”

      “Man should have to clean up from all of that, too, but who do you think will have to do it, instead?”

Greg’s oops face made Mrs. Hudson grin and point him out the door once she’d hoisted her handbag.  Oh yes, she was getting the fresh fish today.  And… maybe a stop at the butcher shop while they were out, too.  The butcher’s son usually minded things this time of day and... well, she had a suspicion about who he preferred to cuddle on cold nights, so that would be tomorrow night’s especially-delicious meal sorted.  And it was dreadful to get the baker to make those delicate chocolate tortes Mr. Holmes loved so much… oh yes, plans were now in motion.  When you have a weapon, use it to best advantage and her weapon was a potent one, indeed…


	6. Chapter 6

      “What are you… I know I didn’t buy any berries today, you horrid thing, so how are you able to stand there shoveling them into your mouth.”

Mrs. Hudson glared and the widely grinning Greg, who popped another strawberry past his strong, white teeth and began chewing with gusto.

      “Wr fre.”

      “Oh, did I miss the sign that said, ‘Free Strawberries, Take Lots’ when I was lawfully paying old Dan Harper’s daughter for tonight’s veg?”

      “That bloke was younger than you and I suppose you did.  Written in big, colorful letters, too, so you might need to get your eyes checked, old Mrs. Hudson.”

      “Lovely.  Now, I have to bring that miserly soil tiller a little something to repay him for you stealing his nice strawberries and… though, now that I think about it… his middle son, the plumber, did the work last winter when we had a problem with the tap in Mr. Holmes’s bath and I _know_ he put extra padding in the bill… a few berries is some repayment for that bit of skullduggery, I suppose.  But, no more thieving!  I’ll not have Mr. Holmes trundling down to have a chat with the constables because you’ve been caught with your hand in the biscuit barrel.”

      “Then make certain to bake enough that I won’t have to!”

      “There’s not a speck of good in you, is there, evil boy?”

      “Nope.  Never said there was either.  What you see is what you get, though I do admit what you see is a fairly fine thing, indeed.”

      “Since it won us this beautiful fish for dinner, I won’t disagree, but know I am thinking it in my mind.”

      “Oh dear, what is now in your mind, Mrs. Hudson and how much is it going to cost my infinitesimally-small purse?”

Greg blew a kiss at Mrs. Hudson and turned to smile at Mycroft, who, he was delighted to notice, was slightly flushed and sporting rakish, wind-mussed hair.

      “She wants to put one of those massive swimming pools behind the church, so everyone can have a cool dip in the summer after they’ve gotten hot and bothered thinking about all the sins you’re reminding them of while you give your sermon.  Here, want a strawberry?”

      “Oh, I have been hoping to taste these early ones.”

Mrs. Hudson gave Greg a surreptitious pinch for having her vicar eat stolen fruit, but it was a soft one, overall, seeing the gleam in Greg’s eyes as he watched Mycroft take a bite of the berry and curl his lips into a tiny grin as the flavor burst on his tongue.

      “Most delicious.  I suspect we shall have a fine year this year and I greatly look forward to when they are more abundant.”

And so did Greg, if his Mycroft lit up like that when he had one.  But, Mycroft had always lit up over the small pleasures in life.  Since they had few pleasures of _any_ form when they were young, it was a rare and precious sight.

      “I’ll get my recipes ready.  Now, why don’t you go and run a comb through that hair of yours and check it for birds that might have started nesting in it.”

      “I do hope the eggs have not yet been laid, for I would hate to have to remain quietly seated for however long is required for them to hatch.”

Making shooing motions with her hands, Mrs. Hudson cleared her kitchen of ridiculous vicars and strawberry thieves so she could tend to her own work and the ousted duo could have some time alone.  It would do her Mr. Holmes a world of good to have someone non-dreary to talk to for awhile to flush the effects of the mummy-dry Mr. Spooner out of his brain.  The man could bore the dead and one thing you could say for that Lestrade fellow… he certainly wasn’t boring…

__________

      “Hold on a second, Mycroft…”

Mycroft stopped and frowned slightly as Greg reached up, ultimately pulling a leaf out of Mycroft’s hair.

      “No sparrows, but a nice bit of tree.  What did you do, take a roll down a hill?”

      “I opted for my bicycle, rather than my feet as a means of transport, and I do tend to get a touch mussed and muddied when I do so.”

      “Bicycle!”

      “Yes… oh, do stop laughing, Gregory.”

      “Nope!  I never, ever thought you’d get on a bicycle again!”

Sighing heavily, Mycroft crooked a finger and escorted Greg to his study, sighing even more heavily when Greg threw himself into a chair and spun so his legs dangled over one arm and his back rested against the other.

      “Really, Gregory?”

      “Too sexy for a vicarage?”

      “You never change, do you?”

      “Not on a wager!  And, speaking of not changing… the bicycle, Mycroft.  That intrigues me mightily.”

      “A bicycle is a perfectly acceptable mode of transportation.”

      “It is, which is why I wanted to teach you how to ride one.”

      “I… it was a disgraceful thing you did.  Stealing a bicycle…”

      “That fake my-morals-are-offended isn’t going to derail my train of thought, you know.  Besides, I was right, wasn’t I?  Lad who collected the betting slips always stopped in for a few pints in the afternoon and was in the pub for at least an hour.  Never even knew I borrowed it!”

Though he _would_ have stolen one for Mycroft if Mycroft hadn’t been a true and proper disaster of a bicycle rider.  Would have made it easier for him to avoid those areas where he always met with trouble and saved his friend more than a few bruises and scrapes.

      “That is utterly beside the point.”

      “It’s the _only_ point that matters, besides the one on top of your head.  Wait, let me be accurate.  Wasn’t really a point, more of a massive bump on top of your head.  And however many bruises you got from falling off of that bicycle a hundred bloody times.”

Mycroft’s stern glare began to waver as those memories danced a merry dance though his mind.  In truth, he had been eager to learn to ride, just not on a pilfered steed.  And, as was right and proper, he had been chastised thoroughly by the Lord for committing his transgression.  The blasted thing would not obey!  He must have spilled off the contraption a dozen times before Gregory could not even steady it for another try, so hard was he laughing.  It was a mutual decision never again to try something so daft.  It was highly doubtful his skull would survive another attempt and Mummy would never have forgiven him if he returned home holding half of his brain in his hands.

      “It was not my most glorious victory, I will admit.  I still contend, however, that there was a mechanical flaw in the machine that made it particularly difficult to operate.  When Michael allowed me use of his at college, it behaved in a far more agreeable and cooperative manner.”

      “Michael?  Who’s he?”

And, you big dumbo, try not to sound so fucking jealous when asking a simple question about someone Mycroft knew at college. One of his mates, most likely.  Not that Mycroft ever really had any of those…

      “He…”

You don’t pause talking about a mate!  You pause… ooh, that bastard had his hands on my Mycroft.  Better hope he’s living in Antarctica right now because… because you don’t have any right at all to give that fucker a thump so stop acting like a jealous boyfriend, even if you’re getting that acidy jealous feeling in your stomach that’s all the more acidy because you know you don’t have a right to all that acid in the first place.

      “Had a little thing going, did you?”

Notice the past tense ‘had,’ Mycroft?  See how I’m not assuming a present-tense ‘have,’ which will bring thumping right back into this imaginary conversation.

      “One might say that.  I met him my third year and… we came to know each quite well.”

      “You’re doing that thing where people use ‘know’ in the biblical sense, aren’t you?”

      “I… I had not intended to, however, it… is not entirely misapplied, in this case.”

Look at you blush, you beautiful, not-a-virgin-though-I-assumed-you-were, sexy man.  I’m both fucking jealous and fucking turned on because if you’re not a virgin, then maybe you won’t be so shocked when you find out that I’m not either.  Ok, you probably know that because you’d have to be stupid not to, but you don’t know I’m not a man-virgin, do you?  No, that doesn’t make any sense.  This is why you’re the smart one!  I can’t even think of a better term than man-virgin!

      “Ok… did it last long?”

      “Half a year, perhaps.  A pleasant experience and one I remember fondly, however, we simply exhausted whatever had fueled the spark of our attraction and we parted company to go on about our lives.”

Alright, that didn’t sound very serious.  Good.  Nothing to like about the thought of another bloke having his fingerprints on Mycroft’s cock, but fingerprints on Mycroft’s heart was another matter entirely.  Not that a wastrel thief and dirty-dealer has any cause to even _consider_ leaving his own fingerprints there, but some days, hypocrisy was that wastrel’s best quality.

      “Sounds nice.  Boring, but nice.”

      “Yes, I do apologize for the lack of exciting tales of trips to Mardi Gras, but it was not the proper time of year for it, you see.  However, many a bracing picnic occurred that were quite the talk of the local duck and swan populations.”

When they were growing up, nobody got Mycroft’s sense of humor besides him.  That’s because they were all swine and pearls before swine really was more than just an expression.

      “The debauchery!  Nibbling sandwiches and reading Yeats, I wager.”

Mycroft snickered softly at the image, which was not too far off the reality, and that was why, in all likelihood, they’d ultimately said their goodbyes.  Very pleasant, very genteel, very predictable… again, there had been no lava in his veins and, maybe it was inexcusably romantic to want such a thing, but it was what it was… at least his imagination was a lascivious thing and he saw no sin whatsoever in exercising that to its fullest.  Especially when one was in one’s private bedroom where that imagination might inspire one to enjoy a small celebration of one’s own natural, physical form.

      “Yeats, Gregory?  Not really my area.  Poe was more my picnic reading of choice.”

      ‘You always did love Poe.  All those creepy stories and poems.”

      “As do I still, along with a legion of other creepy storytellers and poets.  Some might see it as discordant with my profession, but one should have a touch of discord in their lives if it is to be a full and flavorful one.”

      “That’s why my life is overflowing with fulfillment.  I’m all about discord and loads of it.”

      “Which makes you a rapscallion, not an embracer of fulfillment.”

      “Does it?  Oh well, my mistake.  But, I have to say, I like the sound of being a rapscallion a lot better.  Like I should be in one of those white, billowy pirate shirts, standing on the deck of a ship, looking handsome and ready for adventure.”

      “I should never have introduced you to old films.  Your piratical nature certainly does not require additional nurturing.”

But what great fun it had been, on rainy afternoons, to sit with Gregory watching old, classic films on the small, ancient telly in Gregory’s parents’ flat.  Some they saw so many times, they could recite the lines and often did, interspersing rampant overacting with bouts of giggling, then shushing each other, so they could return to their viewing.

      “Yeah, massive failure on your part.  Bought myself a parrot and peg leg straightaway after you left.  Sadly, the navy gets a bit miffed if you board one of their ships and wave a wooden sword about while your parrot squawks ‘I’m here for booty!’  Saw a lot of time in the brig for a few years there.”

Laughing at the expected silliness, Mycroft still felt a twinge of sadness that so many years had passed without this in his life.  It was his own fault, of course, for he could, at any time, have reached out to connect again with his friend, but never did, no matter how many times the thought flitted through his mind.

      “I do hope they allowed you your parrot for companionship.”

      “Bugger hopped between the bars in the window and flew away, leaving a lovely shit behind on the sill for me to remember him by.”

      “Villainous fowl.”

      “To this day, every time I get a nice bit of chicken for dinner, I pretend it’s him and that makes it all the tastier.”

      “What a vicious man you are, Gregory.”

      “That I am.  Whatever you do, don’t challenge me to backgammon or you’ll regret it profoundly.”

Mycroft’s scandalized gasp widened Greg’s challenging smile and the vicar made his most dramatic show of removing a backgammon set from a bookcase near Greg’s now-swinging feet.

      “I knew you’d have one, Mycroft Holmes, addict that you are.”

      “I am most certainly not addicted to backgammon.  I am merely an aficionado of the game.”

Ever since the day Gregory had found a set tossed in someone’s rubbish and they took a rule book from the library to learn how to play.  They had tried chess, but Gregory grew bored waiting while he pondered and planned his moves.  Backgammon moved at a better pace to hold Gregory’s attention and it quickly became their game of choice when other activities did not beckon.

      “Well, Mr. Aficionado, let’s see if you still have any talent for the game.”

      “I believe you will find I am still supremely talented.  And inevitably victorious.”

      “Them’s fightin’ words.”

      “Then let us begin.  I do enjoy a bit of combat before dinner.”

__________

      “True perfection, Mrs. Hudson.  The fish seemed especially delicious tonight.”

      “Was it?  Hmmm… must have been particularly fresh, because _I_ certainly didn’t do anything different.”

Mycroft didn’t question Greg’s tiny snort of laughter or his housekeeper’s impish smile, for one recognized when one was better _not_ knowing for the sake of one’s eternal soul.

      “Regardless, it was a wonderful dinner and I do thank you for it.  With the lovely buns we enjoyed for tea and this succulent fish, I am almost fearful to inquire as to what might be our next indulgence.”

      “Yesterday’s chocolate sponge.”

      “Oh.”

      “But… I suppose I could slice it thin and make a touch of something to spread between the layers.  Got a little extra chocolate I _could_ make into a sauce…”

      “Hark!  Do I hear the angels singing?”

      “Not with _that_ one in the house.”

Greg grinned at Mrs. Hudson’s finger pointing at him and took care to straighten his shirt and run a hand through his hair to present it to best effect.

      “That’s something to take pride in!  I’m so sexy even the angels are struck speechless.”

      “You’ll have your own throne in hell, you miserable devil.  Now, be off with you, the both of you.  I’ll get something to shove in his silly mouth and you can start a new game.  That wasn’t smart, Devil Boy, getting Mr. Holmes blood rising with his favorite game.  He’ll not give you a moment’s peace now, not a single one.”

Something that pleased Mrs. Hudson to no end.  Walking into the study and seeing her vicar positively glowing with happiness, playing his game with someone who looked as interested in it as he was… something that positively warmed her heart or else she certainly wouldn’t be going through the bother of making a special treat for afters when BBC One actually had something interesting on for a change tonight.

      “That I shall not.  Gregory is now in my proverbial net and not a chance does he have of wriggling out.  Shall we?”

Mycroft’s eager expression as he rose from the table made Greg shake his head and realize that he was in for a long night of gameplay.  Which was brilliant, to his way of thinking, but he should probably get something done first, so he didn’t have to interrupt their fun later for anything more than a quick run to the loo.

      “We shall.  Ummmm… I need to step outside for a smoke first, but set up the board, maybe pour some of that horrible port you love and I’ll join you in a moment.”

Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson shared a look as Greg rose and left the dining room, but neither broached the fact that Greg hadn’t smoked once yet while he was in their presence, so the ‘need’ bit made his statement somewhat questionable.  However, there were times when you didn’t pry… mostly because you had a suspicion you could worm the truth out of a person later, in any case, if you knew the right levers to pull…

__________

      “You were right.  Ran your financials and… fat deposit into your account two days before the deal went sour.”

He’d taken a chance that Anderson would already be on his shift and now wished he’d just waited.  Not much fun playing backgammon when you were more in a mood for backstabbing.  One large knife in one treacherous back…

      “Fuck.  Well, I suspected as much, but hope never killed a person.  Dimmock’s accounts?”

      “Nothing.  No withdrawals on his side that match your deposit, even if I go back a ways.”

      “Bollocks.  He was in on it, I fucking know he was.”

      “Not saying that isn’t true, but I didn’t find anything under an account with his name.  He could have others I can’t find, under false names, like you do, so…”

      “Yeah, I know.  Can you track the money?  Where it came from?”

      “That’ll raise some official flags I’m not keen to raise, if you know what I mean.  What I _can_ do is ask around if anyone knows where the bastard might have money hidden and see where that leads.  You’ve got a bigger problem, though, Greg.”

      “What now?”

      “Fat Sid got word you shagged his wife.”

      “FUCK!  How’d he hear that?”

      “Take a guess.”

      “That fucker Dimmock better hope I don’t catch him alone for even one second or he’ll be missing half his fingers and all of his face.”

      “That’ll improve his looks, but won’t get you out of this mess.  Sid’s mad…”

      “Look, I only shagged her once… maybe twice… after she took up with him and… he’ll have my balls on a platter if he finds me before I can smooth things over.”

      “How?”

      “I’ve got tidbits he’d like to know about some of those in the North that could be very useful leverage if he needed it.  He’s not stupid, he’d probably trade that for my gorgeous plums, but not if he’s already cut them off or had one of his lads do it before we could talk.”

      “Want me to get the word to him?”

      “Not just yet.  I don’t want him breathing down your neck because he knows you’re in contact with me.  What’s his thoughts on whether I screwed Stu and the rest on the mobiles sale?”

      “That it doesn’t sound like something you’d do, mostly because there’s bigger sacks of cash to be had keeping that buyer happy than there is a quick one-off payment to choke a single transaction.  But, I can’t say, now, he’d be too ready to step in and save your skin with this new business about his wife.”

Which removed one potential ally from the gameboard.  Double fuck with a litter of fucklets at home to feed…

      “You’re probably right.  Look, Phoebe has had more than my pen in her inkwell since she married Sid, including Sid’s cousin Martin.  That short bloke Pete that runs cars and… who was the numbers man that Sid sent to Felixstowe to sort out that problem at the docks?”

      “Rob… Somethingoranother.”

      “Grace.  Rob Grace.  That’s her current one and… remember that hotel you and I took those dancers the night I won two thousand on the races?”

      “How could I forget?”

      “That’s where Phoebe takes her interests, usually on Wednesday nights when Sid’s at the pub playing darts.  Give the boy at the desk a hundred quid and he’ll get some photos.”

      “How’re you going to play it?”

      “Not sure yet.  In the meantime, put some mud in the water about the other men in her life; just get some whispers going.  That’ll make it to Sid fast enough no matter how quiet they are.  More talk about that sort of thing now will make him wonder why he got the story about me in the first place.  He’s paranoid enough to start worrying and about more than who’s fucking his wife.”

      “Not a problem.  The hundred quid, though…”

      “You’ve got my account numbers, help yourself.  _Just_ a hundred, though.”

      “I’ll try and remember.  You also owe me for New Year’s Eve.”

      “Ooh.  Forgot about that.  Don’t make it hurt too badly, alright. I’m not sure when I can actually be a wage earner again.”

      “Like you ever were.”

      “A proverbial wage earner.”

      “Better.  Look, I need to go, but I’m on nights the rest of the week, so I can stop in at the hotel soon to work on the photos.”

      “Thanks, mate.  I’ll call in a few days to see what’s what.”

Greg terminated the call and let out a soft puff of breath.  Complications were precisely what he didn’t need right now so, of course, a large and juicy one falls right into his lap.

      “Gregory?  A word?”

Turning his head slowly toward the voice, Greg’s eyes shut tight in the childish hope that if he couldn’t see Mycroft leaning out the window of his study, Mycroft leaning out the window of his study couldn’t see him.

      “Ummmm…”

      “Inside, Gregory Lestrade and prepare for a conversation.”

Complications… when it rained, it bloody well poured.  And there wasn’t a brolly in the world big enough to shield him from the complication that was scowling angrily at him right now…


	7. Chapter 7

      “Got the backgammon board set up already.  Eager for me to claim victory?”

      “Sit, Gregory.”

      “Sure!  Have to sit to play, don’t I?”

Give a cheeky smile and… ooh, get glared at in return.  Cheeky smile failure!  This was going to be bad.

      “Look, Mycroft…”

      “No, kindly do not attempt to deflect from or downplay the situation.  I am not pleased, Gregory, not pleased at all.”

      “Everything is under control, so…”

      “Control!  As if I care a whit about control!  A married woman… and, then, you further seek to besmirch her reputation with photographs!  Have you no decency?”

This was going to be _very_ bad.

      “Just because she’s married doesn’t…”

      “Adultery!  It is adultery and, in no manner, is there a way in which you can present that in a positive light!”

      “Can I finish one sentence, please!  Just one?  Is that too much to ask?”

      “Very well.  Go ahead.”

      “First…”

      “It is reprehensible!  Positively reprehensible!”

      “You really don’t need me for this conversation, to you?”

      “I will apologize for my interruptions, but I will not apologize for my indignation and disappointment in you.”

The worst thing of all, more than a kick in the bollocks was Mycroft being disappointed in him.  It’d happened too often in the past and hurt like hell every time.  However… it was hard to deny it wasn’t warranted all those times.  This one, too.

      “Those last two… you can keep the disappointment, but lose the indignation because, frankly, it’s not a good look for you.”

      “Adultery!”

      “I’m not married!”

      “She is!”

      “Then it’s her problem, not mine.”

      “That is an argument I would, once, have thought beneath you, Gregory.”

Disappointment rising!  Oh, Mycroft would be giving him the ‘whatever shall I do with you, Gregory, and is there any point remaining in trying’ look soon and that was a look he never wanted to see again in this lifetime.  Time to make excuses like an excuse-making professional…

      “It was… she chatted me up in a club one night and…”

_And_ I’d had a bit of something that made the chatting up and sexy suggestions sound like the very best idea the world had ever spawned.

      “… one thing led to another.  I didn’t chase after her and wasn’t the one to make the first move.”

      “However, you easily could have refused, something an honorable man surely would have done.  And, I do believe I overheard that you enjoyed her company more than once, correct?”

Damn your ears! They’re undermining my professional-quality excuses!

      “Yeah, ok… won’t lie about that.  We’d had a good time, a very good time, in fact, and why not have another taste if it was offered? And it _was_ offered, Mycroft.  Wasn’t me that did the asking.  First time or second.  Or third.”

      “Gregory!”

      “It was… a good year ago, now.  Someone new caught her attention, so no more offers.  A few meaningless shags, Mycroft, nothing more.”

      “With a married woman!”

      “And?  It wasn’t _me_ breaking any vows.  Besides, Sidney’s enormous arse does its share of dallying with willing women, so don’t feel sorry him.  They both know the other cheats, but… it’s a different thing when you _know_ know the other one’s cheating.  Especially when word gets around about it.”

      “It is a disgraceful thing, nonetheless.  You _know_ the vows sworn to in marriage and you should have rebuffed her advances.”

      “First, if she wants to break her vows, that’s her decision and, like I said, I was only one example in a long history of vow-breaking.  Second, I’m not the morality police!  It’s not my responsibility to push someone back on your righteous bloody path.”

      “It is the responsibility of all to keep watch over their brethren.”

      “That’s shit, it what it is.  You take responsibility for yourself and you own your decisions, good and bad.”

      “No!  I mean… yes, you do own your decisions, but so many of us, all of us, I suspect, make poor choices at times, for this reason or that, and it is our duty as part of the human family to help.  To guide and instruct.  None of us are perfect, but we endeavor to be better and all should lend a hand to help achieve that goal.”

      “Bollocks!  If someone asks for help, sure, you’d be an arse not to help, but I have my own life and my own problems to worry about.  I can’t take on everyone else’s, too!  Isn’t that your job, anyway?  Aren’t _you_ supposed to be the one to do all that hand-lending bit?”

      “If I know of the situation, then yes, and it is a job I do gladly, but that does not negate the responsibility we all have for our fellow man.  Further, you are seeking to use this woman’s actions to your own advantage and that is despicable.  Photographs!  The vulgarity of that cannot be overstated.  You are intending some form of reprehensible blackmail and I cannot…”

      “Not necessarily!  My neck is on the line, Mycroft, and I’ll do what’s necessary to protect it, don’t think I won’t!  But… I don’t know what I’m going to do with them, yet.  Maybe give Sid a better target to make an example of, maybe use them to help convince Phoebe to tell Sid to back off if he comes after me, maybe nothing at all.  Maybe I don’t see a good way they can help when and if the heat turns up.  But, I need every resource and asset I can right now and I’m not walking away from one just because your knickers are in a twist.”

      “Your troubles are _your_ responsibility, I believe was the gist of your former assertion?  Why should anyone else be used as a pawn to remedy them?”

Don’t use my words against me, Mycroft.  I _hate_ hypocrisy, even though I do more of it than half of London, combined.

      “Funny man.  Any of them would use me the same way, so I don’t feel the slightest bit of guilt about it.  That’s the real world, Mycroft, and you know that.  Every person looking out for themselves, doing what you have to if you want to survive.”

      “Incorrect.”

      “Absolutely correct, unless you want to ignore reality which, I’m prepared to admit, a fucking lot of people do.”

      “There is good in everyone, Gregory, and we seek, we _strive_ to find our own and bring out the good in others.”

      “You do!  You, Mycroft, do exactly that and it’s a wonderful thing.  But you’re you and not me or anybody else in this accursed world, so don’t project yourself onto anyone else or you’ll just run into a large, thick wall of disappointment.”

      “Which will not, in any fashion, dissuade me from persevering for it is a noble task and one to which I have dedicated my life.  However, this conversation has gone astray and I would return it to its original course.  You willingly had relations with a married woman, which is a terrible sin and…”

      “Don’t believe in sin.  Don’t believe in your god, so sins against something I don’t believe in don’t count either.”

Sad and disappointed face!  This was an old one, though, and easily recognized.  Unfortunately.

      “You remain an atheist.”

Something you could never understand, Mycroft, though, I have to give you credit for believing a person didn’t have to proclaim faith in some higher power to be good and worthwhile.  You never judged a body based on that, but… you never judged people based on anything except their actions and, even then, you believed they could change, no matter how much of a bastard they were, including pitiful sods with Lestrade-level bastardness, which was an amount unmeasurable by modern science.

      “I am and stronger than ever.  Can’t see what I’ve seen and believe in some white-bearded old codger living in the clouds keeping watch over everything.  Daftest thing I ever heard, but I never looked down on you for believing it was true, so don’t start looking down on me because I don’t.”

Which you don’t, but it’s a good jab and some people, such as one sitting here in this chair, are low enough to use dishonest jabs when they’re feeling tetchy.

      “I never look down upon a person because of their beliefs, Gregory, and you know that well.  I… I simply hoped that yours might have changed.”

      “They haven’t changed and neither have I.  I’m not a good person, Mycroft, and when you accept that, you won’t be so fucking disappointed by the things I do or don’t do.  Yes, I fucked a married woman.  Yes, I’m getting snaps of her fucking another bloke.  Yes, I’ll use those snaps if I have to.  I’m trying to keep some large, paid-for lad putting a sack over my head and beating that head until the sack is soaked to dripping with my blood.  I _will_ do what I have to so that doesn’t happen.  Anybody would.  You want to lecture me about sin and adultery and that’s all meaningless if I’m lying under a headstone and can’t hear it!”

      “One does not…”

Mycroft’s reply was cut off by Mrs. Hudson’s kicking at the study door, then stepping inside with a tray of her chocolate-sponge creation for the two men glaring at her for the interruption.

      “Someone looks like they very much need a bit of chocolate right now, so isn’t it a lucky thing I brought lots.”

      “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.  However…”

Mycroft looked at Greg and, seeing the defiance and willingness to continue their argument until the sun rose in the morning, decided he had neither the taste for, nor the fortitude to continue to pound against an immovable wall.  Step away, cool his temper, and approach things with a clear head tomorrow when his words might find some purchase to scale that wall and reach Gregory’s ears.

      “… I find I have lost my appetite and, I believe, I shall make this an early evening and retire with a good book.  Please enjoy my portion for it does look most scrumptious.”

Mycroft rose from his desk and smiled weakly at his housekeeper before leaving the study, ignoring Greg’s low growl of frustration at an argument left unfinished.

      “Alright, blackguard that you are, you’ve not made a single move with your game, so he can’t be upset about losing…”

No, that certainly wasn’t what Mycroft was upset about and Greg’s heavy sigh put Mrs. Hudson on alert that the reason for Mycroft’s upset was sitting in a chair, sighing heavily and falling into a guilty look that had her setting down her tray and taking Mycroft’s vacant seat so she could listen to what was likely to be a long story.

      “What’d you do and how angry is he?”

Greg snarled at the assumption he was at fault, but credited it was the most _obvious_ assumption and for a variety of reasons.  Knowing Mrs. Hudson would probably beat him with a broom if he didn’t talk, Greg began to let the story flow, in more detail than he’d expected and… with a wormy feeling growing in his stomach as the words coming out of his mouth a second time began to sound not so… good… to his ears.

      “Well… I can’t say I haven’t known a few like her in my time, but Mr. Holmes is right that you don’t have to add more mud to your waters by taking advantage of it.  That being said, you’re also right that you’re in a proper jam and have to do what you have to to see your way out of it.  I’d advise, though, that you keep the especially evil things away from Mr. Holmes’s eyes and ears.  He’s not stupid, sees the world more realistically than you might imagine, but refuses to accept it has to stay the horrid way it is.  He honestly believes that people can rise above their greed, pettiness, dishonesty and selfishness to make something better of themselves and society.  We need more people like him in this world, but until we get them, what say we take care of the ones we do have, alright?”

Greg fidgeted in his char and tapped a silent tune on his knee with the fork he’d lifted from one of the plates of cake.

      “Yeah… I suppose.  He’d be just as angry, though, if I lied to him or hid things.”

      “True, but I suspect you’ve got practice doing just that and simply need to dust off those skills and put them to good use here.  Also… maybe start thinking about how you can do things _without_ needing to lie to him about them.”

Scowling was a particular talent of her new guest, it seemed, but Mrs. Hudson couldn’t help but see in the chair on the other side of Mycroft’s desk an agitated eight-year old who had just gotten a spoonful of unpleasant truth from his mum that was sliding down his throat no matter how much he wanted to spit it back out.

      “Well, you think about that and eat this lovely creation I made for you, while I enjoy Mr. Holmes’s plate with a bit of telly.  You’re welcome to watch with me, if you like.”

      “I… maybe later. Right now, I just need to think.”

      “Even better.”

Mrs. Hudson took one plate off the tray and used her free hand to give Greg a pat on the shoulder as she left the study.  What a handful that one was!  Every day a new piece of trouble… but, there were people in the world who were _truly_ nasty and hard-hearted.  People who wouldn’t have sat there and tolerated to an old, but still attractive and surprisingly limber, housekeeper giving him the bent eye.  Maybe her vicar was right and there was still a trace of a soul hidden in there somewhere that was worth saving.  But, heavens above, it wasn’t going to be an easy task.  Fortunately, Mr. Holmes was nothing if not a hard worker and didn’t give up once he’d sunk his teeth into something that mattered to him…

__________

The second time Mycroft heard a tap on his window, he decided it wasn’t a figment of his imagination and rose from his bed, set aside his book and moved to investigate.  Of the various things he expected, a bat, bird, wind, a hobgoblin or banshee, nowhere on the list was Greg standing on a ladder just to the left of his window, tapping with one hand and holding what appeared to be Mrs. Hudson’s dessert creation, minus one bite, in the other.  Throwing open the window, Greg’s large smile was, at least, something the vicar _did_ expect, though this example was a particularly stunning one, given the soft glow of moonlight by which it was illuminated.

      “Really, Gregory… what has gotten into you?”

      “Couldn’t let you miss a taste of this, now could I?  It’s fantastic!”

      “And you could not approach me via the door of my bedroom?”

      “Special cake deserves special delivery!  Yummmm… look at all of this chocolatey goodness…”

Greg waved the plate under Mycroft’s glowering gaze and gave a silent hurray! when Mycroft shook his head and moved away from the window, motioning him inside.

      “Should I ask where you found a ladder?”

      “I’ll put it back where I found it.  Eat cake now, worry about ladders later.”

Hoping whichever neighbor was now missing a ladder didn’t suddenly find their cat up a tree or need to patch a hole in the roof, Mycroft lifted the fork from the plate and took a bite of Greg’s gift, marveling how simple ingredients could create such heavenly treats.

      “I know that smile, Mycroft.  That’s your ‘oh my, this is delicious’ smile if I’ve ever seen it.  I don’t know what Mrs. Hudson will do to top that, but I’m sure I’ll find out soon.”

      “She does take great pride in her cooking and baking, so I have no doubt you will have the opportunity to sample further of her special dishes during your stay.”

It wasn’t much of an opening, but Greg had no idea if he’d get a better one, so leapt on it like a kitten on a ball of yarn.  Sitting on the edge of Mycroft’s bed, he patted the empty space beside him and beamed hopefully at his friend until Mycroft took a seat.

      “I hope so.  And… I want my stay to be a pleasant one, so… I’m sorry for tonight, Mycroft.  I don’t want you to be upset by the things I do or have done and, though I can’t necessarily change any of it, you shouldn’t have to be party to any of it.  And I certainly don’t have to fight you over what you think about it, because, if I’m honest, a lot of people would agree with your views about me and Phoebe.  I just… you know me, always spoiling for a fight, whether my fists get used or not.  I _am_ sorry, Mycroft.  It was poor payment for you helping me out and, though I can’t promise it won’t happen again, I can promise to try to not get my dander up about things.”

Mycroft had a wealth of experience determining whether Greg was being honest with an apology or when he was giving one simply to make a problem go away, and this was an example of the former.

      “Thank you, Gregory… I appreciate that a great deal.  And, I offer you my apology in return.  I have counseled more than a few who were led astray from their marriage vows or participated in the straying and I certainly did not behave with them as I did with you.  I was inappropriate in words and tone and I am truly sorry for my overly-vigorous chastisement of your conduct and views.  My, as you say, dander was up as much as yours and there is nothing productive to come from that.”

Watching Mycroft take another bite and reflecting on his words, Greg recognized that his own ability to apologize properly was learned from the man sitting next to him, eating chocolate sponge and cream.  Mycroft always did it right and he’d modeled his own sincere apologies, extremely rare though they were, on his friend’s model.  And, if he was honest, that had made a world of difference when those apologies were necessary and even _he_ couldn’t keep a clear conscience without giving them.

      “Thanks.  Now, can I have a bite of cake?”

      “I believe that particular missing area has already satisfied your request.”

Mycroft pointed to the original missing bite and cut eyes at Greg, who was grinning sheepishly at being caught out.

      “Alright, then, can I have _another_ bite?  That one was purely to verify it was good enough to offer as an apology present and prove it wasn’t poisoned.  Barely tasted its lusciousness, which possibly qualifies as a crime, though I’d have to check the law books to make certain.”

      “Ah, I see.  Very well, then…”

Taking a large morsel of cake and cream on the fork, Mycroft hoisted the prize and Greg obligingly wrapped his lips around it and slowly drew every bit into his mouth, making nearly sexual sounds of satisfaction as he did so.  Looking up to grin at his naughtiness, his eyes locked with Mycroft’s and each man felt that peculiar and undeniable sensation that this was a _moment_.  What the moment was for or about was entirely immaterial, or even known, but it existed and there was no manner in which it could be ignored.  Acting on it, however, was another matter entirely and without a clear idea of what to do, Mycroft blinked sharply, Greg made a grand show of chewing and both looked away for a few seconds to let the electric feeling diffuse.

For now.  Moments were moments for a reason and they didn’t arise without something there to inspire them.  Any number of things could serve as that inspiration, of course, but both men were uneasy about using this particular place and time to discover which on that list might be the one at work here.  However, there were other places and other times to delve into the situation and explore it more fully.  Or not!  Not was something to consider, too.  Sometimes, _not_ was the best thing under the sun for anyone and everyone involved.

But, it certainly did no harm to think about _not_ not-ing and what might come of that in the future.  No harm at all ever came from thinking, even if you did it quite a lot and relished the excitement certain parts of you experienced when you did it…

      “Ooh, looks like you’ve got a certain Mr. Lovecraft in your bed, Mr. Holmes.  Does Mrs. Hudson know you’re keeping salacious company like that?”

      “I fear she does and laments terribly ever allowing me to cross the threshold of her prim and proper vicarage.”

      “Very understandable.  Which story are you reading?”

      “Currently, _The Dunwich Horror_.”

      “I remember that one!  Eerie thing, it is.  Kept me awake that first time we read it from that book you got at the library.  It had pictures, too, which made it all the worse.”

      “My copy does as well.  Would you like to see?”

      “Yes, please!  Always enjoyed a good sleepless night, holding the blanket over my head.”

Reaching over to grab his book, Mycroft remembered the many, many times he and Greg shared a book, Greg’s library privileges having been revoked early on for conduct unbecoming a suitable library patron, so only Mycroft could take books for them to enjoy.  They’d consumed countless tales of horror and adventure, mystery and comedy, which was another reason his friend stood above the various ruffians around whom they spent their childhood.  He could always be tempted by a good book and the discussions it prompted, even if there was not a single, terrifying illustration involved.

A curious, literate mind combined with a scintillating smile and body that defined the concept of masculinity… was it any wonder his younger self fantasized about such a person?  Or that his older self began, again, to do so when that person reappeared in his life.  Dear Gregory… you do challenge my inner strength, but it is a challenge I gladly accept and one at which I will surely prevail.

Though, failing offers its own tantalizing possibilities and around those the most tawdry and pleasurable fantasies revolve.  Tonight, however, the lure of literature beckons and that shall content us for a few hours.  Once you are gone, however, something else shall content me and I do hope my guardian angel does not choose this night to pay a visit for they shall see something that will surely set their wings afire and obliterate their faith in the moral purity of their wicked, wicked charge…


	8. Chapter 8

      “Fuck that!”

      “You _will_ and not another vulgarity out of your mouth while Mr. Holmes works on his sermon.  It’s probably sacrilegious and I’ll not have his lovely words hexed because you were being lazy and rude.”

      “I’m not lazy!  It’s just… no.”

Mrs. Hudson glared and shoved the shears hard into Greg’s chest, very much enjoying the ‘oof’ he made as a result.

      “You’ll help me with the gardening and do it willingly since you’re eating me out of my month’s grocery budget.  A spot of work is the least payment I can expect for having to stretch one chicken and two potatoes out for the next week’s dinners.”

      “I did the shopping with you yesterday so I know that’s a lie.  Lies are sacrilegious, too, you know.”

      “Are they?  I’ll ask Mr. Holmes about it when he’s done, but until then, start clipping those hedges.  Then you can help me with weeding the flowers.”

Greg stamped his feet like a toddler, which earned him nothing but a ‘be off with you’ wave of Mrs. Hudson’s hand and he made his first few clips of the hedge particularly vicious to show his displeasure at being so cruelly used.  Just because Mycroft had to write a stupid sermon was no reason he should have to keep out of the way and be conscripted into servitude.  Of course, that he’d be able to distract Mycroft just by being in the house wasn’t a compliment he’d let slide by without a smug smile, but… weeds!  Plants were things old people and mums with kids in school tended to.  But, she had a point about being a moocher, which was something Greg Lestrade would rather slit his own throat than be.  He didn’t have many principles but parasitism fell right across his line of alright/not alright, so if he had to torture some shrubs to earn his keep.  Then so be it.  Mrs. Hudson could still fuck off with that hat she tried to make him wear, though.  It would immediately turn him into an old duffer and it’d be _two_ throats slit if he suddenly started to crave tweed and bought some ridiculous dog to take with him rambling…

At least, though, Mycroft had the study window open and he could easily watch at his desk, like a sneaky creeper.  So serious and focused while he worked... and peaceful.  Like he was doing _exactly_ what he wanted to do.  He looked perfectly comfortable, blissfully at home, with his pen and paper in his study that looked like something out of a Miss Marple book.  Mycroft had been so tragically out of place where they grew up.  Unless he was in the library, church or one of their flats, he didn’t fit their bit of London at all.  Maybe a posher area, with cleaner streets, lots of green spaces and that cultural stuff that people like Mycroft seemed to adore like museums and the like, but they rarely even peeked into nice places like there for being chased out by the police or street sweepers.

Here, though, Mycroft just naturally melded into everything as if it had been waiting for him his whole life.  Quiet, scenic… a place where he could have the time he wanted for his own pursuits, but where he was important, respected and made a true contribution to his little world.  He had his tidy house, his gargoyle of a housekeeper and looked so content with it all that it was hard not to smile thinking of how much he deserved all of this and what good luck there must be in the universe that he had actually found it.

      “Ooh, this is the one I’ve heard about, hmmmm?  I’m not sure about the looks of him.  Has a touch of young Lenin about the eyes and I’ll not stand for a Communist in the vicarage!”

Mrs. Hudson muttered a curse under her breath, then rose from the ground to greet Mrs. Turner, who was stopping by with her daily check of the church and dose of vexation for those who tended it.

      “Good heavens, Edwina, something wrong with your eyes?  Look at that skin!  Lenin wasn’t a swarthy bugger like this one.  Unless he’s Cuban, I think we can assume he’s not from that side of the fence.”

Watching the new old bird petulantly wave off the familiar old bird in his life, Greg turned on his most knickers-dropping smile and ran his tongue slowly across the edges of his upper row of teeth so Mrs. Turner actually felt the industrial strength elastic of her undergarments begin to loosen to give Greg a noticeable victory.

      “Born and bred here, thank you very much, ladies, and not a single communist vote on my record.”

Or any vote at all because fuck the system and its corruption.  Politicians are the ruin of politics and, if they had a few smart, rational men like Mycroft running things we’d all be better off.

      “Well, if you say so, young man, I suppose it’s polite of me to believe you.  Probably Labour, though, rough thing that you are, and that’s close enough!  Well, I’ll tell you right now, we won’t stand for any protests or marches or anything of the like here!  Keep your unions and long-hairs well away from our nice village if you know what’s good for you!”

      “No marches for me!  Too lazy for them and my handwriting’s for shite so I couldn’t letter a legible sign to hold up in any case.”

      “Our vicar won’t stand for laziness, so you’d best mend your ways!  Martha, let this one know how the vicar feels about sloth.”

      “He thinks they’re delightful, just like all God’s creatures, though a bit on the slow side.”

Greg made a surreptitious thumb’s up, but it withered under Mrs. Turner’s sobering glare.

      “This is not the time for humor, Martha!  Why the bishop hasn’t sacked you yet is further proof he’s too soft for the job.”

Noo!  No sacking Mrs. Hudson, miserable old baggage.  Mycroft adores her cakes…

      “Could be _he’s_ Labour, too, ma’am.  Maybe, dare I say it – a Socialist?”

Greg suffered Mrs. Hudson’s punch because the fire that lit in their visitor’s eyes was not something to be encouraged, though it suit his purposes nicely.

      “I… I shall demand an inquiry!  We cannot allow even the smallest toehold by the Reds in the Church of England!  It’s a scandal, it is!  I expect the vicar to issue the proper letter to the bishop and I will send along my own in support.  Right, I need to buy more stationary.  Martha, I shall return for tea tomorrow and I expect the vicar present to give me a status report on this.”

Watching the determined woman march away, Greg mimicked her slightly-waddly march and earned another punch from the exasperated Mrs. Hudson.

      “You’ll be the one to tell Mr. Holmes he has to suffer her for tea tomorrow, you horrid thing.  He’ll trounce you properly for that.”

      “Nah, because he won’t be here.  Emergency call out for a sick dog or something and all’s right in the world.  You can give Margaret Thatcher there a ring and tell her the vicar has to reschedule but he’s going to post his letter to the bishop on the way to pray for old Fido.”

      “Lies come easy to you, don’t they?”

      “Very easy, actually.  Part and parcel of my great success!”

      “Look how proud you are.  It’s not decent.”

      “Good to know!  _I’m_ not decent, so it’d be a shame if I wasn’t being true to myself.  Besides, Mycroft has enough decency for him and me both, with loads to spare for you, too, evil old bird.”

      “Why do you think I work in a vicarage!  Second-hand decency is fine for the likes of me and he does have more than his fair share.  Just look at him…”

Oh, I have been, Mrs. Hudson, but I’ll do it a bit more if it makes you happy.  Certainly no hardship there.

      “… working his fingers to the bone to write a sermon that’s uplifting and makes people want be the best person they can be.  At least for the rest of Sunday, after which things go back to normal, but it works for awhile!  And I like to think there’s a cumulative effect. Enough Sundays of wanting to be a good person and it bleeds into other days, as well.”

      “That’s very optimistic.”

      “Comes with being decent.  Of course… can’t be _too_ optimistic because that’s when rogues and rascals take advantage of you, but a bit of optimism isn’t a bad thing.  Now, we’ve got work to do… don’t think I’ve forgotten about it!  The hedges won’t trim themselves, so get to it!”

Whipping her hat off her head and giving Greg a good swat with it, Mrs. Hudson returned his rude-gesture reply and both giggled when they simultaneously looked over to the study window to see if they’d been caught.  Mycroft would certainly have something to say about their antics and they were both perfectly content to imagine the lecture in their heads rather than hear it in their ears.  In Greg’s case, the imagination was providing a few particularly-pleasing additions that made a smile cross his lips as he started hacking away again at the vegetation.  Mycroft was actually incredibly sexy when he was being finger-waggy and chastising.  Parlaying that into something more physical would be nothing short of delicious…

__________

      “What am I, an old lady magnet?”

Wiping the sweat off his brow, Greg watched walk out of the garden the last of the parade of matronly women who’d stopped by for a chat while they were working.

      “Let me think… granddaughter, daughter, daughter, niece… granddaughter, granddaughter, sister who was the surprise baby of the family twenty years after the older brood was born… get the picture?”

      “Fuck me, I’m on the auction block!”

      “More like you’re being auditioned.  See if you’re a suitable lad for the ones they’re trying to marry off.”

      “Shite.  They saw I was the coal in the stocking, right?  Normally, I’d be more than happy to pull a few lovelies for a bit of fun, but I can’t imagine that would earn Mycroft much goodwill, would it?”

      “It most certainly would not.  Now, if you had a genuine interest in a young woman and showed proper respect, that would be another thing entirely, but given your circumstances, it might be best to simply keep a polite distance.”

      “Yeah, you’re right.  I have to ask, though, did the Valkyries go after Mycroft like that when he landed here?”

      “A bit, though not as much as they might for some.  He has that air about him, you know what I mean, that makes you wonder if he’s interested in anyone at all.  Then, of course, when the lights went on in their heads that if he was interested in someone, it wouldn’t be someone sporting two rolling hills on their chest, that tossed a spanner into their schemes.”

      “They know Mycroft’s gay?”

      “Oh yes, that bit didn’t take long to be fathomed out.  He had a young man at the time who visited every few weeks for a day or two.  Didn’t last terribly long once Mr. Holmes was here, but it was certainly long enough for everyone in the village to get the full-color picture of things.  And he’s had another romance since then.  Short, again, but just means he’s not found the right one for him yet.”

Hint, hint, you evil boy.

      “And… no rioting in the streets?  I wouldn’t have thought a village like this would tolerate a gay vicar, or any gay person, for that matter.”

Or bi, but this stuffy lot probably believes ‘bisexual’ means a person who has sex every other week.

      “Well, some definitely weren’t happy about it, but Himself didn’t let that stop him doing his job and, with a little time, people saw that he was good at what he did and you didn’t catch ‘the gay’ from being around him.  And he doesn’t hide it, accompanied that professor bloke of his to dinner any number of times in the village and I think everyone saw it was just as normal as when they took their own special interest out for the night.  And… well, not to name any names, but a few people have reached out, very privately, to ask questions because… well, they might wonder a bit about themselves or a child of theirs and finally have someone who actually knows firsthand about the situation.  I won’t say everyone approves of his… lifestyle… even now, but we had two positively ghastly vicars before Mr. Holmes and I think having someone competent, caring and hardworking in the job means more than who he might want to go walking with on a moonlit night.”

      “Oh… well, I suppose that makes sense.  I’m glad for him, though, no matter the reason.  He was terrified when we were young of anyone finding out about him, though he never wanted to admit it.  What’d likely happen to him wouldn’t have been pleasant…”

Or survivable, given some of the arseholes who prowled their streets.

      “He had you to talk to though, didn’t he?”

      “Yeah, and I made sure he really understood, too, that it was alright he liked men.  That there wasn’t anything wrong with that, wasn’t anything wrong with _him_.”

      “He knew you had a taste for them, too, so… oh no.  That face… you never told him!”

      “I didn’t know!  At least, not for certain.  I didn’t fully fathom it out until after he was gone!”

Thought, maybe, it was just him that filled my eyes.  A special case.  Which is still true, since nobody man or woman has been that special to me, though I was still more than happy to have a vigorous evening or three with them, when the offer was presented.

      “And now?”

      “I… it’s not something I’m certain about doing, like you said, given my circumstances.  That’s one more complication I don’t need and before you say it doesn’t complicate anything, stop, think of how daft it would sound and save yourself while you can.”

It’d be useful complications, you bloody criminal!  At least, for _my_ purposes.  And, maybe yours, too… didn’t miss you watching Mr. Holmes, smile on your lips, when you should have been torturing my bushes.

      “I’ll admit a man has a right to his privacy, but he _is_ your friend and I think he’d be happy to learn something new about you.  Besides, you said you couldn’t really talk much about that in your line of work, so there’s someone who’d be happy to listen.”

      “To what?  Me rate common brands of lube from best to worst?  Chat about how hard I like to be spanked?’

      “Ooh, are you into that sort of thing?  I always had a question about…”

      “Nope!  Nope, that’s not a conversation we’ll be having.”

      “Why not?  Nothing wrong with knowledge.”

      “First, I was joking…”

Well, except for that one time… two times… maybe it _is_ rather… stiffening… to feel that deep sting when… right.  No more thinking about that when there’s a very observant housekeeper standing right there waiting to pounce on any sign of a sexy thought.

      “… and second, Mycroft would faint dead away if I even pretended to be serious about something like that.  Why are you giving me that look?”

Because, Mr. SpankMeHarder, you’ve never seen the wistfulness in Mr. Holmes’s eyes when he talks about how ‘nice’ his evenings have been with a gentleman friend.  A bit of spice would likely be _highly_ appreciated…

      “Because Mr. Holmes is an adult and not a quaking flower.  Now, if you’re done with the shears, you can get your hands dirty by helping pull weeds.”

Crying like a baby wasn’t Greg’s best look, but it did have a certain charm that had gotten him out of more than a few painful obligations to and requests by his mother, so it was certainly worth a shot now.

      “Disgraceful.  That sort of thing only works on mums, because they _have_ to tolerate nonsense from their infants.  It’s part of the job.  But, not with me!  On your knees and get those hands working!”

Another thing that would probably brighten her Mr. Holmes’s nights, but there was still a lot of groundwork to be laid before that was going to happen.  However, it was looking more like it _could_ happen than not.  Just had to be patient.  Good things came to those who waited and her vicar had certainly waited long enough…

__________

      “Ah, Gregory, you… good heavens but you are filthy.”

      “But you’re weed free and the hedges are neat and tidy!”

      “Mrs. Hudson conscripted you to her service.  I certainly approve of that.”

      “Since it meant you weren’t the one conscripted, right?”

      “Precisely!  While I do prize the vicarage’s gardens, I do not prize the grime, sweat and manual labor required to maintain them.  However, it is not honorable to entrust the entire task to Mrs. Hudson, given her other duties, so step in when required.”

      “Hire some lad to come do it.”

      “Hiring has a degree of relationship with monies, if I recall, and that presents somewhat of a challenge for a modest household such as this one.”

      “Forgot about that.  Alright then, get some rascally boy that’s been breaking windows or stealing sweets to do it in exchange for having his mum and dad find out.”

      “I fear such a ruffian would simply rip my beloved peonies straight from the ground to further compound his wretched villainy.”

      “Point taken.  Wretched villainy might not be the best fit with beautiful flowers.  Looks like it’s just me, then.  Best lay in some of that gardener’s soap that’s good for scrubbing off the dirt, but keeps your skin soft and supple.  And what about your day so far?  Finish that massive book you seemed to be writing?”

      “Not yet.  I have not decided how the detective shall present the evidence to unmask the murderer.  The standard gathering of suspects into one room seems a bit cliché, but I do appreciate the drama of it all.”

      “I always liked that bit.  Everyone looking squirmy, the detective going around the room making it seem like each one of them is the killer until BAM!, exposes the murdering bastard to everyone’s shock and amazement.  Leave it in, it’s always a crowd-pleaser.”

Mycroft laughed and set down the cup of tea he’d made, getting the kettle ready to make one for his filthy friend.

      “I shall, then.  Whatever I can do to keep my audience awake in the pew is to my advantage.  Some days, it is all I can do to continue the flow of the proceedings while periodically retrieving pillows and blankets to provide them a restful sleep during Sunday service.”

      “Exotic dancers.  Every try that?”

      “No, not as such, but there was a rather memorable event when a mouse decided to attend one Sunday, but, given the day was a chilly one, sought warmth up the skirt of one of our more shapely congregants.  Said skirt, for reason I cannot comprehend, was removed and hurled away, and we were treated to a most spirited dance while any number of hands tried to capture our little rodent friend and return him to the great outdoors.”

      “And here I thought you lived in a quiet village.  Murderers and dancing girls as far as the eye can see!”

      “We are truly blessed.  Now, I shall prepare your tea while you take the much-needed time to freshen yourself.”

      “I stink, don’t I?”

      “I was not going to remark on it, specifically, but yes.”

      “Freshening, it is, then.  Just a moment…”

Shaking his head at Greg’s sniffing of his armpit and miming being a victim of poison gas, Mycroft returned to his self-imposed kitchen duties and decided a small refreshment might be a welcome accompaniment to the freshening process.  Part of his head shaking, however, was in recognition of how comfortable it felt to welcome his friend after a day, or morning, of work and to be asked about his own progress.  Domesticity was a thing he admired, for achieving it demanded a harmony with another person that endured through time and there was much to admire in that.  In his life, that harmony had been a rare thing and with only one person had it been so complete that it was as natural and embedded in his being as was the air he breathed.

      “Mycroft, just how volcanic would Mrs. Hudson be if I used one of the dainty towels that’s hanging in loo?”

      “The ones with Battenberg lace along the bottom?”

      “Sure, if that’s the frilly bits.”

      “It is and she would emulate most convincingly the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius.”

      “Is that the one where they found those people all covered with ash and lava doing things like using lacy towels and feeding the dog?”

      “It is.”

      “Uhhh…. help me hide them?”

Harmony, however, did not extend towards being an accomplice to towel murder.  And suffering the wrath of Mrs. Hudson when she found the corpses buried beneath the garden wall.

      “It was very nice knowing you, Gregory.”

      “Fuck a duck.  Tea and biscuits before I die, at least?”

      “Of course.  We are not barbarians.”

      “Certainly not.  Barbarians don’t have lacy towels.”

      “I wonder, then, what they give their aunts for Christmas?”

      “Don’t tell me those were Christmas gifts, Mycroft.”

      “Then we have little to talk about, I’m afraid.”

      “Oh no.”

      “If you take my bicycle, you might be able to outpace her.  I do emphasize the ‘might,’ however.”

      “They sell apology flowers in the village, right?”

      “Lacy towels, also, I suspect.”

      “Biscuits in a sack, then, please.  I need to do some shopping.”

      “A bit of butter, too, while you are out?”

      “Alright.  Anything else?”

      “Complete your freshening and I shall script a list.”

      “And…”

      “ _And_ seek to pacify Mrs. Hudson should she discover your destruction while you are gone.”

Yes, flash your little-boy smile, Gregory Lestrade, and dart away to leave me to pack your biscuits and prepare for the impending lava spew.  Mycroft, the Magical Mess Manager… if nothing else, the consonance has a nice ring to it…

__________

      “We’re really evicted?”

      “I am forced to concede it was a mistake to add to our towel-pacification package the cooking of dinner without considering that neither of us is particularly talented in the kitchen.  I truly did not predict the kitchen curtains to catch fire quite so easily, though.  I shall address the issue with the fire warden in the morning.”

      “And it was only one pan I melted!  Well, and the spoon I left in it.  It’s not my fault, either, that your wallpaper doesn’t do a better job of hiding stains.”

      “I feel we should likely be grateful we are only banished from the house for the duration of Mrs. Hudson’s film and how much of my good port she chooses to drink while viewing it.”

      “Then we have to do the cleaning, though.  That could take until dawn!”

      “Tis a small price to pay overall, though, for bundled with that is the Battenberg penalty.”

      “That’s true.  Plus, we get to avoid another lecture and stroll about on this nice evening.”

      “Something I do enjoy, no matter the occasion.  But, on a night as pleasant as this one, it is a particular treat.”

      “I can see why.  London at night has its charm, but you’re still surrounded by lights, people and noise.  It’s so quiet here after dark and… well, you can really see the stars, can’t you?  At least, better than in the city.”

      “There is a sense of being away from the world, almost as if you have stepped through a doorway and entered a new realm where only you exist.  I find it most conducive to reflection and thought.”

      “What do you think about?”

      “Oh, anything!  Sometimes I ponder the external, sometimes the internal.”

      “Pondering the internal… thinking about your stomach, are you?  Can’t blame you, what with us not getting any dinner before Mrs. Hudson put her boot up our arses.”

      “I tend not to be quite so anatomical in my musings.  Have you noticed the ability of the dark and the silence to promote… honesty, for lack of a better word?  Candor, perhaps, also serves the purpose.  There seems less inclination to hide from truths, distort fact or memory, confront thoughts, beliefs and emotions without predisposition… it is often while I lie in bed or when I, in the evening, take to the paths and lanes with no company but my own conscience, that I learn most about myself.  About the world and my place in it.”

      “I know what you mean, actually.  When we were young and I couldn’t get you to sneak out of your flat after your mum was asleep, I used to climb up and sit on your rooftop to… well, not do anything as profound and philosophical as you, but I _would_ think.  Or just lay and listen to the city, sometimes try and fathom out what was going on just by listening.  But, there would be thinking in that, too.  Wondering why things were the way there were and if any of it would ever change.”

      “I… I never knew that.”

Mostly, my dear Mycroft, because those particular times were the ones where I was mad at the world, frustrated with everything and I really needed your calm, your reason and your fucking optimism to see me through it.  If I couldn’t pull you out of your flat, then being near you, even up on the roof of your building, was far better than nothing, and I could never bring myself to tell you because I was ashamed at how weak I felt in those moments.  Maybe… it’s a different story now.

      “Because I could never bring myself to tell you.  Sometimes, when I tried to drag you out, it wasn’t to get into mischief, though I do admit that was usually the reason.  Now and then, though… there was something in me that just needed to talk, even if it wasn’t about what was bothering me.  Sometimes, I didn’t even know what that was!  There would just be this hot, sour knot in my chest and you were always good for getting that to loosen.  Even your building seemed calmer than any other around.  It was like I sat up there and could feel your presence sitting with me, giving me that look that said you were ready to listen to whatever I said and take it all seriously, even if it was rambly, jumbled rubbish.”

      “Then… Gregory if you had but let me know you needed to talk I would have… to hell with Mummy, I would have gone wherever you liked to hear what you had to say.”

      “I know… I think part of me was doing that thing where you hope the other person can read your mind and know everything in your head without you having to say a word.”

      “My lack of precognition _is_ my most profound flaw.”

      “It is, no question about it.”

      “But… jesting aside, that I was not there when you needed me…”

      “No, no guilt from you, Mycroft.  It was me not being brave enough to admit I needed someone to talk to.  And…”

Damn Mrs. Hudson!  Now, here is a perfect moment to tell Mycroft… well, not everything, but _something_ and I can’t walk past it because I’ll just imagine her face in my mind giving me the steely stare of gross and revenge-deserving disappointment.

      “… maybe it’s good you couldn’t read minds, because sometimes I really wasn’t ready for any of what was in my mind to be known.  Didn’t even understand it myself and, perhaps, there are some things you just have to understand and fathom out without help.  Sort of like…”

      “Gregory?”

      “Sort of like when I understood that what I felt when I saw an attractive man wasn’t just general admiration.”

      “Wh… what?”

      “Hard to believe, isn’t it?  The lad who chased skirts like one of those rude tossers in the films actually found he wanted to chase trousers just as swiftly.  Wasn’t completely certain about it, though, until… well, until I had a go with a man and… well, let’s say I immediately knew it was something I wanted to do again.”

      “Gregory… you?  You are gay?”

      “Not quite.”

      “Bisexual.”

      “That’s the one.”

      “Oh… dear heavens…”

Greg eventually realized he was walking alone and retraced his steps to wait beside Mycroft while the vicar stood silently, blinking out an erratic pattern that Greg dearly hoped wasn’t an SOS.

      “You alright, Mycroft?”

      “What?  Oh!  Yes… I am simply… well, flabbergasted is the word I would choose, I suppose.  I never had an inkling, not even a suspicion…”

      “Don’t feel bad about that, I scarcely did, either, until after you were gone.  I… I admit that when I was young, _before_ you went off to college, I found myself ‘noticing’ boys, but I never matched that with being attracted to them.  Thought I was envious because they were handsome or that I was just taking proper notice of something nice looking, like I would a sports car.”

The only one I ever thought any differently about was you, Mycroft.  That what I felt, in my heart and body both, was just for you and had nothing to do with fancying men.  That’s part of what made everything harder to understand, muddied the bigger picture.  I saw _you_ and, fuck me, but I still do…

      “I wish I had known, Gregory.  I hate the idea that you had to navigate that revelation alone.”

      “It wasn’t too rocky a river, and that’s the truth.  And… though I’ve got my own guilt from thinking this… I’m sort of glad I didn’t fully understand until I was older.  I remember how much you hurt sometimes, Mycroft, living with knowing from early on who you were and what you wanted, without being able to tell anyone, let alone being able to do anything about it.  I missed that bit, so… hurray.”

Rather than the solemn nod he expected, Greg was awarded with Mycroft’s hearty laughter and a fresh start on their walk.

      “And I concur!  You were my rock during that time, Gregory.  For that and for so many other things, I am forever in your debt.  It was a dreadful thing, positively dreadful.  Forever frightened that someone would learn my secret and expose me.  Knowing I was as God made me and proud of the gifts he had bestowed, but secretly ashamed that I wished, at times, those gifts might come with smaller prices.  We all have our crosses to bear and it is a mark of character that we bear them with dignity and show gratitude that the Lord deems us strong enough to overcome each in its time, but, I’ll be lying if I said it wasn’t a colossal pain in the arse!”

Now it was Greg laughing and Mycroft joined in, though his mind was partially residing in another place at the moment.  The friend who had captivated him and laid an indelible mark upon his heart was… well, he certainly could no longer castigate himself for fantasizing about a straight man, could he?  Of course, Gregory was still his friend and that was a rather forceful line one did not cross, but… there would be a greater measure of enjoyment taken from the various imaginings concocted by his libidinally-heated brain.

      “And the Mycroft Holmes I know is certainly not a liar!  Your arse seems to have come through it fine, though.”

      “Oh, this old thing?”

Mycroft gave his bum a swat and raised his eyebrows at Greg’s very approving grin.

      “Oh, Mycroft!  Whatever will the neighbors say?  Vicar caught admiring his pert arse in the middle of a public road.  What a story that will make in the local paper, nestled between the expose of the grocer putting his thumb on the scale and the adverts about lost cats.”

      “The scandal shall be devastating, I have no doubt, though Mrs. Hudson will certainly enjoy giving interviews and selling tickets to tour the home of the bum-loving vicar’s sitting room and study.”

      “Think that’ll pay off our house-destroying debt?”

      “Hmmmm… it shall be a close thing.”

      “How about we toss in a few autographed photographs of you grabbing your bum?  Nice little pose of you in one of those long, black frocks with a slit up the back so your creamy posterior contrasts nicely as it peeks out for a good smack?”

Neither man noticed the other’s freezing in place while savoring that particular image because _they_ were frozen in place, savoring that particular image and it took an in-stereo clearing of the throats to start motion going once again.

      “You are diabolical, Gregory Lestrade.”

      “That I am.  And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

      “I would not!  The world has need for the diabolical.  And the debauched.”

      “It does?  For both?  Well, I feel a bit like a superhero now.”

      “Given you are now responsible for guarding my exposed bottom, I rather hope you have the skills to make you up to the task.”

Keeping a straight face was the hardest thing Greg had ever done because if he could ever get Mycroft into one of those severe, black whatsits… completely naked underneath and aching for someone to crawl underneath and fondle that exposed bum while sucking Mycroft’s cock until he saw stars behind his eyes… well, he had to hope the floor the crawled across wasn’t too rough, because he’d be doing it at top speed.

      “Arm’s a touch sore, but my fighting skills are still topnotch.  Can I wear a cape?”

      ‘But, of course!  Mrs. Hudson is actually highly skilled with needle and thread, so a full costume is certainly feasible.”

      “Then, there we have it.  My new career is a bum-protecting superhero wearing a custom-designed costume, with cape.  Though, I have to think about what the emblem would be in the center, like the S for Superman.  Can’t have a firm, round arse right there on my chest.  I’d probably be arrested.”

      “Oh dear, that _is_ a conundrum.  A large moon, perhaps.  I do believe that is a term for showing one’s bottom, is it not.”

      “Moon Man!  We’ve onto something here.  Black costume with a large silvery moon on the front.  I’ll probably get a few calls to handle pesky werewolves or look mysterious at meetings of those groups that do rituals based on the moon cycle, but that’s all money in my pocket, so I won’t complain.”

      “Gregory… superheroes do not charge for their services.”

      “They don’t?”

      “No.”

      “Bugger that, then!  Guess there’s only one bottom I have to safeguard and I even get three meals a day for it!”

      “Provided the kitchen is salvageable.”

      “Let’s keep a good thought.”

Grinning at their silliness, both men found their steps a little lighter as they walked along the quiet lane, with only the owls to bear witness to their conversation.  And if each gave each other the occasional surreptitious, thoughtful, side-eyed glance while the other wasn’t looking, the owls certainly weren’t going to tell the tale.  They were far too curious as to where this might lead to interfere…


	9. Chapter 9

      “You’re fucking with me, Mycroft.”

A statement both men were careful not to extrapolate upon, given the gist of the previous night’s conversation under the moonlight.

      “I assure you, that is not the case.”

      “I looked out there.  Not one of them is over knee high!”

      “Really?  Is young Roderick not in school today?  He is rather tall for his age…”

      “What sort of teacher takes her students on a trip to the church?  Doesn’t that break some form of ‘keep your god-bothering out of my private life and hands off my kids’ laws?”

      “An educational trip focused on the structure of various common village buildings and the jobs associated with them, does not involve a single instance of god-bothering, I can assure you.  They have visited the bank, the police station, the various grocers and farmers, many of the shops and eateries… now it is my turn and one for which I am delighted.”

      “Liar.”

      “Rather against the job description, I’m afraid.”

      “Tiny tots terrify you.”

      “Balderdash.”

      “I remember when they sent us older ones to the primary school to help with that ridiculous school fair of theirs.  Might as well have sent you into a plague-victim colony.  You were convinced that if you even stood close one of the little bastards you’d get dysentery or something.”

      “Entirely untrue.  I was simply worried that I did not know the proper methods of interacting with those so young.”

      “That one kid sneezed on you and you shrieked liked a mandrake.”

      “I have no memory of that.”

      “Pathetic.  Well, I suppose this is just deserts, then.  Go out there and contract malaria or whatever they’re carrying.  I’ll wait right here and…”

      “If you believe, for one moment, I am braving the lion’s den alone, you are sadly mistaken.”

Greg’s ‘urk’ was lost in his being pushed through the open vicarage door, while Mycroft strolled out languidly after him.

      “Good morning, children.”

Ah, all of you are more interested in Gregory pantomiming stabbing me in the heart than reciprocating my greeting.  This is off to a rollicking start.

      “G…good morning, vicar.  The children are very eager to tour the church and learn about what a vicar does for his community.”

Thank you, Ms. Porter.  I am thrilled that I have the attention of the only adult, besides myself, in attendance today.  Really, Gregory, do you have to perform the ‘removing the thumb from your hand’ trick to your tiny audience?  Apparently, you do.  How joyful.

      “Good morning, Ms. Porter.  I am most grateful you have included me in the children’s study of the village.  And, tell me, children… are you eager to delve into the secrets of one of our lovely village’s oldest structures?”

      “Is he going to do a magic show?”

Your grin is not appreciated, Gregory Lestrade.

      “That is not on today’s agenda, Emily, however…”

      “Why not?  He’s funny.”

Gregory… do not… pulling coins out of Steven Parker’s ear is not helping my situation and do not think I am unaware of that fact!

      “Stevie got 10p!  I want money, too!”

Now, dear Gregory is like maypole with a small swarm of children frolicking merrily around him.  Wherever he goes, merriment and lunacy follows.  And why on Earth does he have so many coins in his pocket?

      “What’s your name?”

      “Do you like dogs?”

      “My brother has a shirt like yours.”

      “My name is Lauren and I have three dolls, one is Violet, one is Rose and one is Daisy.  They’re named after flowers, you see.”

      “Are you Mr. Holmes’s boyfriend?  My mum said he would have boyfriends and not girlfriends, but that’s alright because he’s properly English and not a foreigner and that’s the most important thing.”

Chaos now at critical levels!

      “THANK YOU, children.  My, what a lot of questions you have for Gre… Mr. Lestrade.  I am certain he will happily answer them all, once we have completed your tour.”

      “I have to wee.”

      “Can you pull sweets out of our ears?”

      “Do you have red car?  I like red cars a lot and have a big picture of one above my bed so I can look at whenever I want.”

This time, Mycroft shoved Greg towards the church and watched with their teacher as Greg strutted towards the building like the Pied Piper leading his merry band off to a rollicking adventure.

      “I’m so sorry, Mr. Holmes.  They’re not usually quite this… well, you know.”

Yes, I do.  It is the power of The Gregory, and I am well aware of how quickly it acts and the potency of its influence.

      “I completely understand.  Most likely the effect of a new face and one that is visibly pleased by their company.”

      “He does seem to have a way with children.  And… he’s a friend of yours, I hear?”

Probably three seconds after Gregory’s presence in the village was discovered.

      “An old one, yes.  He lived a scant few streets from me when we were young and we became fast friends, my closest one, really until I left for college.”

      “Oh, how nice.  And… he’s visiting for awhile?”

      “A short while, yes.  We have drifted out of touch over the years and are enjoying taking a bit of time to, shall we say, catch up on the details of our lives and share fond memories.”

      “That’s good.  It’s always lovely to hear from old friends and relive good times together.  You… you never know what sorts of things you’ll relive, either, do you?”

Oh no.  Gleam.  That was scheming gleam and he was a certified expert on that living with Mrs. Hudson for so many years.

      “It _has_ been pleasant, I must say.  Though, I am certain Gregory is most anxious, in many ways, to return to London and its livelier pace.  Our village is likely far too placid for a man of his vigor.”

One point awarded for mentioning Gregory’s departure, but it is subtracted for ‘a man of his vigor.’  Score for curtailing rumors remains solidly at naught.

      “I’ve known many a person who found life in a peaceful village quite a happy change from the chaos of London.”

      “Myself being one!  Gregory is cut from a different cloth, I’m afraid, and relishes London’s cacophony and mayhem.  For some, I suppose, the rather riotous vibrancy of such an environment is both enriching and energizing.  And, his parents, to whom he is exceedingly devoted, live in the city, so I shall cherish his occasional visit, if they occur, but shall not alert our estate agents to keep watch for a property suitable for a man of his personality.”

There.  I have invoked parents.  There is no card in the deck to trump that one, so the matter shall now be laid to rest.

      “I don’t know about that.  I did hear that Mrs. Hudson had a terrible time shooing away all the mother hens looking for a nice rooster to bring into the coop.”

So did I.  In detail.

      “Again, a new face in the village is certain to inspire interest.  Now, I do believe we are being remiss in our duties and should retake the responsibility for your pupils.”

      “Don’t see why?  This is the quietest I’ve ever heard them.”

      “One cannot hear much when one has drowned in the baptismal fount.”

      “You don’t keep water in there.”

      “One question about boats and…”

      “Oh dear.”

Yes, run off to save your students and leave behind the nosy little questions.  Gregory’s and my relationship is certainly nobody’s business but our own.  In fact, it is not even _our_ business as it does not exist!  One has no business with the nonexistent.  With a phantasm.  A figment of the imagination.  Even if that figment was rather… enjoyable to imagine.

No, none of that.  There were small children to mind and that would certainly not end well if his mind was pulled in salacious directions.  Not that it should, of course, it was utterly indecent and completely inappropriate given the nature of his and Gregory’s friendship, however, when one had a decidedly brilliant mind, it often had a proverbial mind of its own and a ferociously independent streak, to boot…

__________

      “Goodbye, Greg!”

      “Bye, Greg!”

      “Goodbye, Greg!!”

      “Goodbye, Mr. Magic!”

Yes, Gregory, do wave enthusiastically and smile your brilliant smile.  I would expect no less from Mr. Magic…

      “Oh, that was a thing, wasn’t it?  Those little newts with their bright, shining faces learning all about history and that their vicar doesn’t sit on his arse all week when he’s not up there talking about good works and the like.”

      “Their faces were only shining because someone I know was perpetrating some form of… performance art… during my tutorial.”

      “What’s wrong with making things zippy and visual!  They loved it, didn’t they?  Listened to everything and asked questions.”

      “They wanted to know if there was treasure hidden under the pulpit and if cats went to heaven when they died.”

      “At least you didn’t muck up that last bit and told them yes.”

      “It is quite a point of theological debate, however, their tender years precluded a more academic and, potentially, saddening answer.”

      “And you didn’t want a load of mums storming over here to yell at you for making their child cry.”

      “That did factor into my decision, I will admit.”

      “Well, it made the little buggers happy.  Almost as happy as their picnic!”

      “Mrs. Hudson is going to murder us, again, when she finds our larder bereft of a single biscuit, let alone bread, butter and jam.  It was utterly villainous of you to suggest such a thing.”

      “Made a very nice photo, though, for that bloke from the newspaper.  You, the teacher and all the happy children enjoying a nice day in the vicarage garden after learning about very important things that will make them better citizens and contributors to their community.”

      “Yes, I heard you dictating the text of the accompanying article while I was gaining our charges the last of our Jaffa Cakes.”

      “Nothing wrong with a bit of good press!  Showing the village all the good you’re doing, even with the teeny sprogs.”

      “Granted, it is always beneficial to demonstrate the value of the church to those it services, however…”

Greg’s smile faltered slightly, seeing the look that came across Mycroft’s face.

      “… Gregory, the reporter did not get a photograph of _you_ , did he?  I would hate for that to appear in print, even though our stalwart periodical is little more than a leaflet proclaiming whose roses took top prize in our local competition and the names of newborn members of our congregation.  It is not impossible for that photograph to make its way into dangerous hands once it was available to be circulated..”

      “I’m ahead of you on that, Mycroft, but I’m glad you’re still as clever as ever.  Bloke didn’t get a snap of me and I gave him a mangled spelling of my name that not even my parents would recognize.  Don’t worry about a thing… I’m watching my own back.”

      “Excellent.  It really did not occur to me until today that your interactions with the villagers might open avenues for your discovery.”

      “ _I_ thought about that straight away, but I’m a suspicious, distrustful bastard.  However, I also know how much information makes its way from these little hamlets to my lot in London and that stands squarely at nil, so I’m not worried.  Not going to take chances, of course, but it’s not keeping me awake at night.”

Something that would make this night a restful one for Mycroft, whose worry level had begun to creep solidly upward.

      “Then I shall worry less, myself.  I shall not, though, reduce my vigilance for certain things that might serve to advertise your location to a greater audience.  Now, I suggest a visit to the shops to replenish our foodstuffs, so we are not obliged to erect a tent in the garden for we have been banished from the vicarage completely.”

      “Wouldn’t be that bad.  Mrs. Hudson has to sleep sometime, so sneaking inside to use the loo or loot the spirits supply would be easy.  We could build a fire and tell stories…”

      “I am not going on a tenting holiday, Gregory.”

      “That _is_ a horrifying thought, I must admit.  Insects, no telly, not a bit of fun to be had if you’re not the sort to find insects and living like cavepeople an entertaining thing.  Dreadful.”

      “Agreed.  Though I treasure the restful, contemplative life I have found here, a further step in that direction, without indoor plumbing, electricity and only wild-gathered herbs for tea, is not to my liking.”

      “Then, it’s settled!  None of those horrid holidays for us!  Leave that to the anglers and Scouts.  Monte Carlo for me!  Or laying about on a beach in Greece or Spain… maybe do a Caribbean holiday, instead.  Music, dancing, sunshine, sand between my toes, lots of those fruity rum drinks…”

      “Which are most tasty, I can confirm.”

      “How?”

      “How what?”

      “How can you confirm that?”

      “I have been to the Caribbean.”

      “You have not.”

      “I assure you I have.”

      “Bollocks!”

      “I am not certain what I am to assure about those, however, if we return to the subject of the Caribbean, I participated in a three-month exchange program to interact with a very new, to me, type of congregation with a hope of broadening my perspective and gain a better understanding of the diversity of ideas, beliefs, hopes and needs of the people I might someday find in my own church.”

      “You… hoped to do your work there?”

      “No, but if one only understands a single type of person, one is severely handicapped when the population of one’s flock becomes more heterogenous.  Not that I thought I would ever see a large proportion of congregants with roots in that region, but the broader the swatch of humanity with whom one interacts, the better prepared one is to meet the needs of any of those who crosses one’s path.”

      “Oh, well… that makes sense.  But… you?  In the Caribbean?  You’d turn red as a cherry every time we were in the sun more than thirty seconds!”

      “I admit the Church of England’s budget was temporarily strained by the quantity of sun-protectant and wide-brimmed hats I was required to purchase, but it was all for a good cause.”

      “No, even with all of that, my brain isn’t believing it.”

Mycroft smirked and crooked his finger for Greg to follow him, leading his friend to his study, when he bid Greg take a seat and rummaged about to find a photo album that he dropped onto Greg’s lap.

      “Behold!  Photographic evidence!  Some are rather embarrassing, but that only lends credence to the authenticity of my claim.”

Thumbing through the photos, Greg found himself grinning widely at a younger Mycroft, hair a bit longer than it was now, looking like the epitome of every cliché of a tourist ever conceived, even with his clerical collar prominently displayed, and… happy.  Even when he was a clearly a fish out of water, he was happy to be there, learning new things, helping people, doing the work he’d longed to do…

      “Well, Gregory?  Are you now convinced.”

      “I am convinced!  There’s even one of you here with a fruity drink!”

      “Oh my, those were positively lethal.  I _adored_ them…”

As each of them giggled like grown men weren’t supposed to do, Greg thumbed through a few more pages, then closed the album and beamed Mycroft a smile that puzzled the vicar slightly.

      “And for what reason am I being graced with that particular grin, Gregory Lestrade?”

      “Because… it may sound silly, but… I’m just so proud of you.”

      “I… Gregory, what brought that about?”

      “This!  These photos, the sprog picnic, your study…  I always thought you’d go far, but we had zero advantages except what we made for ourselves and the world isn’t always fair or kind to people like that.  Good people don’t always get what they deserve; bastards don’t either, more’s the pity.  I’d supposed you’d find a good future for yourself, but maybe not exactly the one you especially wanted, because who does that?  Gets it exactly right?  You did, though.  You found your dream, which I don’t think any of the buggers we knew ever achieved.  I doubt many people in the world do it, actually, but you did.  And… I’m just as proud as I can be of you for that.”

A hundred tiny motions animated Mycroft’s face before he rose from his seat, and turned to stand by his window facing out and away from the room.  If Greg hadn’t seen those motions before, he might have been concerned but, instead, when he moved to stand by his friend, he simply leaned his head over to rest on Mycroft’s shoulder in a pose very familiar to them both.

      “Want me to handle them?”

      “Yes, p…please.”

      “Alright… get the fuck back in there you cocksucking emotions and don’t show your bastardy faces here again if you don’t want my boot kicking in your teeth!  Probably got those teeny teeth, too, so they’ll shatter nicely when my toe comes calling.  Arseholes, the lot of you!”

Peeking up, Greg was rewarded with the prize he hoped for – Mycroft’s tiny grin that said the onrush of whatever was threatening to well up had been shoved straight back down with a good dose of Greg Lestrade foolishness.  Mycroft was a complex person, even as a child, and had emotions that ran very deep and very strong.  Showing them, in their neighborhood, wasn’t smart but, when it was just them, alone, and something was overwhelming his friend, cracks and breaks would start to show, which was not at all to Mycroft’s liking.  But, what were friends for if not to step in when you needed a helping hand?

      “A very forceful and effective oration, indeed.”

      “Glad to know I still have the touch.  Want to tell me why they were storming the castle?”

Which was also part of their ritual, though from his own insistence.  If Mycroft was hurting, he shouldn’t have to suffer that alone, not when there was someone at the ready, someone who cared, to help carry the load.

      “You.”

      “Me?”

      “I… oh, this is self-pitying…”

      “Maybe, but you know what they say?  A pity saved is a pity earned.”

Mycroft’s snort of laughter certainly did not draw Greg to stand just a tiny bit closer and situate his head just a little further along the shoulder towards the crook of Mycroft’s neck.

      “Well said.  In any case… it is a story you know.  Mummy was not particularly happy with me or my choices in life.  Father worked to a degree that I scarcely saw him and he never expressed more than mild interest in the things I did or the person I was.  Sherlock… well, that is a miasma into which I have no interest in wading today.  At college and later on… I had acquaintances, those with whom I was cordial and passed rather generically-pleasant time.  I also had a few lecturers and church figures who supported my efforts in achieving my aims.  But… there was something sterile about it all.  As if it was a duty, as opposed to a desire.”

Clearing his throat as the emotions rose again, Mycroft then drew a steadying breath and continued on.

      “But you always supported, Gregory.  Encouraged, believed… you, who were brave, strong, so many things I admired… never wavered in your regard and concern, regardless that who I was and what I wanted ran counter, in many ways, to your own beliefs and goals.  To know that you are proud of me… of what I have accomplished and the man I have become… it is not a thing I take lightly.  It… it is _important_ me, Gregory.  Th…thank you.”

The slight break in Mycroft’s voice shifted Greg once again. without his even noticing, so his hair nuzzled Mycroft’s neck while his arms wrapped around Mycroft’s waist and he held him gently while the man in his embrace breathed through this new upwelling of emotion.

      “I’ve always been proud of you, Mycroft, and I am _amazingly_ proud of you now.  My Mycroft is a good man, a worthwhile and decent man who makes the world a better place and restores hope in reprobates and degenerates like me that things aren’t always as bleak and nasty as they seem.  You really do bring light to this dark, cold world Mycroft, and that you’ve been in my life, then and now, is an honor and pleasure I doubt I can ever properly express.”

With as little conscious awareness as Greg with his arms, Mycroft leaned his head so it rested against his friend’s, lifting his own arm to lay across Greg’s as it tightened against his stomach.

      “Ever my rock, my dear Gregory.”

      “As long as I live.”

Neither Mycroft nor Greg noticed how long the contented silence that fell on the study lasted, too lost were they in the simple joy of their small moment, but the sound of the vicarage door opening broke the spell, though neither felt sufficiently confident to remark on how difficult it was to move apart and adopt a more ‘friendly’ distance.  Or to acknowledge some of the words and actions of the previous few moments that certainly transcended the boundaries one associated with ‘friendly.’

      “Ah, I believe Mrs. Hudson has returned.  We should prepare our cover story for the emptiness of our cupboards.”

      “Fuck that, we should be preparing our escape.”

      “Through the window?”

      “You read my mind.”

Envying Mycroft’s long legs which made vaulting through the window relatively easy, Greg followed suit and joined Mycroft laughing and running away from the vicarage.  It didn’t matter where they went either.  It just felt good to do something rash and silly and have a partner to do it with.  How desperately they’d missed this sort of thing…

… and how desperately they wished they’d never lose it again.


	10. Chapter 10

      “Alright, that’s one thing off my mind.  Photos good?”

      “Oh, yes.  If you don’t use them, I may sell them to put a few quid away for lean times.  Very exotic stuff.  Props and everything.”

Greg wouldn’t specifically admit he’d put off phoning Anderson these past few days but… phoning Anderson would bring his brain back to the reason he was hiding out with Mycroft and his brain just wasn’t in the proper mood for that.  He was having far too wonderful a time without that shit pushing its way in and kicking over the chairs.

These past several days had been just like when they were young, but better.  Relaxing in the evenings with the backgammon set and a little port, days with Mycroft showing him the village and the surrounding scenery.  It was the most eventless few days he’d spent in years and he’d loved every minute of it.  But, one could only ignore reality for so long…

      “Perfect.  Exactly the sort of thing neither Phoebe or Fat Sid would want circulating, though I know for a fact that Sidney’s tastes behind closed doors make none of that one bit of a surprise.  What about Dimmock’s accounts?”

      “Actually hunted up a few leads and I’ve got a bloke stopping by later to pass me a bit of information you were kind enough to pay him for.”

      “Wonderful.  What did that fucking cost me?”

      “Nothing you can’t afford.  Oh, and phone your parents.  They’re worried they left you a few messages and you haven’t rung them back.”

In his business, parents and children were off-limits, but it still paid to play things as safe as possible.  This meant anything about his parents was kept well away from what he did, but having a constable in the know to keep an eye out for problems in their area was a good investment.  He’d given his parents Anderson’s phone number so they could call directly if they had an issue and that led to calls to report suspicious lurkers and neighbors’ dogs leaving presents in their flowers, but _he_ was thrilled for it since his parents had spent most of their lives believing that the police cared as little about them and their problems as the fucking government and, while that was still true, it gave him confidence that they were finally getting their chance to be middle-class pains in police arses, which was as grand an accomplishment as Mycroft gaining his quiet vicarage in the country.

Now, however, they were apparently using their phone-calling superpowers to track their idiotic son, who’d forgotten he had parents that normally heard his ear-assaulting voice every other day or so.  Stupid, stupid, stupid… luckily, the situation was easily mended, but the question would be how much of a disgraceful lie did he tell them this time…

      “Ugh… thanks, though.  Went straight out of my mind that they call.  What’d you tell them?”

      “That I thought I remembered you saying something about going off for business sometime soon.  Vague enough for you to confirm or deny and toss in some detail, as necessary.”

      “Good.  I can work with that.  And I’ll phone them today to set their minds at ease.”

      “Any particular lie I should be prepared to back up?”

      “Yours is good.  Off working on a deal and it slipped my mind how long I’d been away.”

      “Alright.  Now, when do you want me hand over the photos?  Where, too?”

Good question.  It wasn’t as if he had a car and Mycroft’s bicycle would only get him so far.  Getting to a train station wouldn’t be that difficult, though…

      “What shift are you working tomorrow?”

      “None.  It’s an off day, though I did agree to step in for a few hours in the morning since we’re a bit short of bodies and three of ours have to testify in court.”

      “That Greek restaurant you found north of the city – I’ll buy your lunch tomorrow and we can look over whatever it is you’re getting today, too.”

      “I’m not one to turn down free lunch.”

      “Noon, then.”

      “How about two?”

      “Nah, I want to get my hands on that as early as possible.”

      “We can meet today, then.  I can probably swap a few hours with someone and…”

      “No… today’s not possible.”

      “Don’t tell me you’ve already filled your fucking dance card?”

      “Not exactly… I…”

      “It’s that embarrassing?”

      “I have to go to church.”

      “What?”

      “Go protect the citizens, you lazy cock.”

Terminating the call immediately, Greg sighed and tried not to imagine how hard Anderson was laughing right now.  He’d laugh harder if he knew he was escorting a feisty older woman and more because she’d keep him from making another fleet-footed escape than out of the goodness of his heart.  Mycroft hadn’t demanded he attend, that wasn’t Mycroft’s way, but Mrs. Hudson had given him a glare a viper would envy when he’d declined Mycroft’s initial request.  And, speak of the devil…

      “At least you don’t look like a ragamuffin.”

      “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.  I did try to keep both the rag and the muffin at bay.”

      “Funny.  Now, remember that we represent Mr. Holmes, so don’t do anything to embarrass him.”

      “First, I don’t represent anybody.  Second, what do you think I’m going to do?  Do a striptease in the middle of his sermon?”

      “Probably gain us a few extra quid in the church coffers, but Mr. Holmes would not be pleased.”

Since he’d be sharing that naked body of yours with the village and not getting to keep it all for himself.  When he gets around to making it for himself, that is.

      “Yeah, and he’d give me a LONG lecture about proper behavior that he won’t have time to script properly, since he probably has lots of things to do after services, like talk to people and smell roses and… stuff.”

      “That he does and you’ll be there with him to learn exactly what that ‘stuff’ happens to be, so prepare for visiting.”

      “Nope!  I don’t visit.”

      “Your arse is _here_ , isn’t it?”

      “This isn’t a visit, this is self-preservation.”

      “It’ll be the same thing today.  You’ll accompany Mr. Holmes for tea and more tea and lunch and cake and rose smelling and all of that business, while being a charming ornament for his arm and making the old biddies feel young again, so the rest of his week goes more smoothly than it would otherwise.”

      “Meaning, I smile, flatter and flirt so they don’t storm over here complaining about communists or the amount of swearing on the telly?”

      “Precisely…”

Just like the wife of any vicar, young man.  Best you learn the parameters of your future position in society early and well.

      “… and you also act as the ‘off to the side’ person to chat with about things before they take those things _to_ Mr. Holmes.”

      “Marvelous.  You’re actually saying they’d want _me_ to take the issue forward so they could feel guilt-free about pointing out who’s sleeping with who and which sticky fingers stole the chocolate cake at the charity cake-and-pie sale?”

      “See? You already know the job!”

      “Do you have my frock ready since you, apparently, think I’m Mycroft’s wife?”

Very perceptive for a criminal.  But, successful criminality likely necessitates being perceptive and observant, so it’ll be easy to shift that skill set over to keeping the village in order with your loving and devoted vicar.  If you know what’s good for you.

      “I still have to sew on the sleeves and hem it to length, but I’ll have it done by next week.  Those old rags you’re wearing will do for now.”

      “I just bought these!”

      “So you say.  Oh, look at the time, we’d best be off.”

Dragging Greg out of the vicarage, Mrs. Hudson smiled at how little effort the dragging was taking.  The villainous criminal didn’t seem all that villainous anymore with a touch of peaceful living under his braces.  Or maybe it was because of the peaceful person he was living _with_.  Quiet, intimate evenings, long walks… lots of opportunity for Mr. Holmes to work his gentle, but persistent, magic on the felon to kick those felonious urges back into hiding.  Rural life wasn’t for everyone, that much was certain, but the resident miscreant seemed to have more of a taste for it than he might want to admit.

Now, the question was how to keep him here long enough for that taste to become a longing.  One he could share with someone who’d acknowledged that longing quite some time ago…

__________

That was fucking brilliant!  One, he hadn’t been struck by lightning entering the church without (a) a bleeding wound or (b) escorting tiny children as part of a good deed and two, Mycroft conducting services was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen.

When they were young, Mycroft never liked being in the spotlight.  Hated speaking in class, because he was so much smarter and better spoken than anyone else in the room and the fuckers in class made him pay for that when they thought he was rubbing their noses in it.  Which was every time he spoke about anything at all.  But, seeing him today, free to let all that intellect and eloquence freely flow… it was mesmerizing.  And Mrs. Hudson had been right… he knew exactly how to use that intellect and eloquence to craft an experience that was uplifting and made you… you stepped out of that church feeling good!  You felt you wanted to be the best person you could possibly be and that the person you were now was pretty fucking good, in any case.  Didn’t matter if you believed in a god or not, you couldn’t walk away from that and not be happy you were part of this community and hopeful to do your part to make it a good one.

Of course, being part of this community seemed to involve a LOT of chatting, which was enough to drain away all your life’s energy.  Everybody had to mill about after the service gossiping and making invitations and EVERYBODY had to stop and talk with Mycroft.  There was practically a queue of people waiting to have their chance to say hello to their vicar and, if he was cynical enough to think it, their chance to have Mycroft pay them a compliment in front of the others in the queue.  One of whom was breaking the queue to stroll over and talk to _him_ …

      “And, how are you, dear?”

      “Oh, hello Mrs…”

Smythe?  Felsham?  Something snooty and from the 1920’s… yes!

      “… Mannering.  How are you this lovely morning?”

      “A touch of a sniffle, actually.”

      “That’s a shame.  What do they say is good for that?  Probably tea.  It seems to be the proper prescription for almost everything.”

      “An excellent idea.  I shall put the kettle on the moment I get home.  Now, though… I thought I’d put a little word in your ear about the fun run to raise money for those poor little children in the orphanage.  Now, Mrs. Porter has been taking charge of organizing that and… well, between you and me, it isn’t going very well.  Not rallying the troops, so to speak, and getting volunteers or even runners!”

This was it!  Oh my god… he was the vicar’s wife!  From Mr. Magic to Mrs. Vicar in less than a week… that had to be a record.

      “Oh… you don’t say.”

      “It’d be a terrible thing if those sweet little children didn’t see a farthing because this wonderful opportunity fell to ruin.”

      “Terrible thing, just like you said.”

      “Good, I knew you’d understand.  I’m certain the vicar will appreciate a bit of warning on that, seeing as it’s him who got this started.  Tell him… well, he knows where to find me if he wants a little advice on the matter.  Must dash now.  My husband looks a little fidgety and that usually means he’s getting worried about his chickens.”

Greg didn’t want to know what the final wink before she left meant, but he had a suspicion that… yes, here came another one.  Mycroft had his queue and now, apparently, he had his.  This was Mrs. Hudson’s fault.  Didn’t matter if it was or wasn’t, it _was_ and that was the end of that.

      “You’re Mr. Holmes’s… _friend_ , aren’t you?  How nice of you to come and support him on a Sunday.”

The agony was real.

      “Yes, ma’am and wasn’t it a… bracing sermon he gave.  Such a lucky lot you all are having him to inspire good works and… charity.”

      “I agree.  Such a dear, dear man and he cares so much about everyone, even if they don’t set foot in church for anything other than their own funeral.  Now, while I have a moment, I just wanted to have a little word with you about the primary school’s choral performance next month.  I know Mr. Warner has been working with the children, he’s good-hearted about things like that, but the man couldn’t carry a tune in a pail!  In my opinion, the vicar should probably have a bit of a think about that and, though I know he’s not _directly_ involved, I know he’d want a quick chat the headmaster about it, so the children don’t have a poor night of it.  Here, let me give you an example of how wrong it’s all going…”

The agony was real and very agonizing, indeed…

__________

      “ _Every_ Sunday?”

      “You are now witness, Gregory, to the most social day of my week, when there is not some goings-on in the village in which I must participate.”

      “How do you have any hair left?”

      “As you can see, there is a paucity of it, compared to my younger years and, though I shall not attribute the full blame for the loss on this aspect of my work, I will not avoid laying some small measure of blame at its doorstep.”

Though, hadn’t Gregory navigated the social maelstrom of village life with stellar success!  A ready smile and patient ear, always with a kind, yet non-committal word with whomever he was speaking… truly he comported himself marvelously and the number of approving glances Gregory received was rather unprecedented for a day when a new face was on display for the village as a whole. 

      “You’ve still got your curl, so that’s all that matters.”

      “I had many curls once upon a day.”

      “Yeah, but… _the_ curl.  It still stands proudly.”

      “Ah yes, that it does.  My eternal nemesis.”

      “Nope, it’s one of the things that make you unique.”

Greg reached out and flicked a finger through the full and proud curl at the front of Mycroft’s hair and laughed at the curl-owner’s dramatically-rolled eyes.

      “Delightful.  Fortunately, its existence does not significantly impede either my work or my mental health, so I have yet to use some form of depilatory to end its accursed existence.”

      “Not gonna happen on my shift, Mycroft.  Sorry, but the curl stays.”

      “Drat.  As ever, you complicate my life in the most heinous manner.  Along those lines, what must I tend to that was delivered first to your ears by our various citizens?”

Apparently, Mycroft was also in the know about the various duties of his wife.  Good that they were all on the same page of the hymnal…

      “Charity fun run, primary school singing, low-hanging branches on the lane going to one of the farms, the biscuits at some ladies’ meeting about flower boxes for the village shops, the judges at the upcoming fruit and veg competition, and Mrs. Turner.”

      “What about Mrs. Turner?”

      “Oh… everything.”

      “The usual, then.  Very well, I shall be ready with appropriate responses when I encounter the various petitioners over the course of the week.  Or, I shall purchase a train ticket to Greenland and take a small holiday.”

      “You’d need a boat too, I think, but… since you mentioned it… is it far to a station?”

      “Not appreciably.  Two villages over, in fact.”

      “Ok… cycling distance for your sort of bicycle?”

Which was something they rode about on during WWII, in Greg’s estimation, which is why it fit Mycroft perfectly.

      “Gregory, you have now inquired about the riding of my venerable bicycle.  You know that cannot stand unaddressed.”

      “Yeah, I know.  I… I need to meet someone tomorrow and the train is probably the easiest and cheapest way for me to do it.”

      “Meet someone.  Is this about your dilemma in London?”

      “It is.  I’m hoping to get some information that might be of help, actually.”

      “Such as the photographs for which you have been waiting?”

Don’t glower at your wife, Mycroft.  You’ll owe me flowers and chocolate it you keep it going.

      “Ummmm… that’s part of it.  Not all of it!  Also hoping to get something on that fucker Dimmock.  If I can show he’s the one who set that deal up to sour, the heat will move from me to him.”

      “I see.  This individual you are meeting… are they dangerous?”

      “Anderson?  No.  He’s bent, that’s for certain, but not dangerous to anyone unless they’ve crossed him or deserve it for being a truly evil bastard.”

      “Your policeman friend.  I see…”

      “So, no danger, just some things to look through and I’ll be back by late afternoon.  Evening at the latest.  Depends on whether there’s anything I can act on right away.”

      “Very well.  I shall accompany you.”

      “No.”

      “I counter with yes.”

      “Mycroft, there’s no reason for you to come along when I’m just going to have lunch and browse through some papers.”

      “And where are we having lunch?  Will I need to polish my shoes?”

      “You’re having lunch here and I’m eating at some Greek place Anderson likes.”

      “Gregory, I am not content to sit here while you place yourself in such an exposed situation.”

      “Not running about naked and not going into London.  The restaurant is a nice distance out of the city and there’s no chance I’ll run across anyone I’m trying to avoid.”

      “Regardless, I will be far more comfortable if I am there to be an extra set of eyes to watch for that very thing occurring.”

      “Nope.”

      “Barring chains and a padlock, I do not see how you will stop me.”

Greg snarled, then pouted that his snarl had as much effect on Mycroft as it ever did, which was none.  The stubborn vicar wasn’t going to back down and, if he was honest, there wasn’t any harm to be done by Mycroft following along.  Quick call to Anderson tonight so he wasn’t surprised tomorrow, but it really would just be a friendly lunch and some paper perusing.  Just had to impress on Mycroft the necessity of being miserly with any details about who he was or where they were living, to keep the threat of any real danger coming here to the barest minimum.  Besides… Mycroft’s mind for maths was a lot better than his, though far less corrupt, and he might prove useful running an eye over whatever Anderson brought for inspection.

      “Fine!  But complete civilian wardrobe.”

      “Whatever does that mean?”

      “Nothing that screams ‘Hey, look over here!  Vicar at Table 10!’  The less Anderson knows about you, the better.  I trust him not to say anything, but things happen and I do NOT want you dragged into any of this.”

      “Very well, I shall adopt a disguise for the occasion.  Tavern wench or Henry the Eighth?”

      “Funny.  I’ll choose your clothes, if you’re going to play Mr. Funnybones.”

      “Whatever you prefer.  I shall alert Mrs. Hudson that we shall be gone for the day.  I am certain she will rejoice for the peace and quiet.”

      “She’ll have her friends in for a spot of gambling and drink all the gin.”

      “Good for her.  I hope she wins enough for a spot of paint for the window sills.  They are looking somewhat scaly at the moment, due to peeling.”

      ‘I’m not painting your house, Mycroft.”

      “Not the entire thing, Gregory, heaven forbid!  Just the window sills and various bits of trim to freshen the façade.”

      “Not a painter.”

      “Something we can discuss on the train tomorrow.”

      “Oh joy.”

      “I shall bring with me various guides on the proper methods of exterior paint application.”

      “Mrs. Hudson bought them for you, didn’t she, you wicked man.”

      “I cannot recall.”

      “I hate you.”

      “Might I purchase your kind regard with a rousing game of backgammon before dinner?”

      “I… hate you less.”

      “Excellent.  Any progress is a victory I claim proudly.”

__________

Even without a single specific thing indicating Mycroft’s profession, Greg suspected it would take less than three guesses for any average person to guess it from the hundred million tiny clues that screamed off of him.  The way he sat, the look on his face, how he treated other people in the station and on the train… everything shrieked ‘this is a good person and you might want to take a snap because you don’t see people this good very often.’  It seemed almost sacrilegious, in truth, to bring him anywhere near the pesthole that was London.  Or, at least, the London that welcomed Greg Lestrade, because there were parts that weren’t particularly pest-holish, but they sent berks like him away with the rubbish when he put a toe across the imaginary territorial borders.

      “I must admit, Gregory… I am somewhat excited for this adventure.”

      “What, never had Greek food?”

      “Most amusing.  It is… well, you have to admit there is something of the film noir about it.  The falsely-accused man having a secret meeting with the corrupt policeman who may hold the key to his exoneration.”

      “No more old films for you!”

      “Pish tosh.  I recognize this may be, as they say, old hat to you, but it is quite the novel experience for me.”

And wasn’t the prim and proper vicar beaming like a contest winner at the thought of doing something shady.  Fortunately, Anderson wasn’t particularly exciting or mysterious, else Mycroft might start asking about code words or payments in plain brown envelopes.  Oddly, though, having his old, stocking-wearing auntie here with him, the whole business seemed a great deal more manageable.  Meet up with a head cracker today and Mycroft would give him a good scolding and bash him on the head with his handbag.

      “Well, let’s hope it’s _absolutely_ unique and you don’t have to do it again.  Alright, there at the end of the road is the restaurant.  I’ve already told Anderson to expect you, so he’s not put on guard by someone he doesn’t know being there and he said he might try and pull along his bloke who collected the information for him, so we can ask a few questions, if need be.  It’ll cost me a fortune if that happens, most likely, but I won’t complain if it bears fruit.”

      “I am most skilled at interrogations, as you know, so it is a _very_ good thing I have accompanied you today.”

      “Getting people to talk about their various sins isn’t exactly what defines a master interrogator, Mycroft.”

      “Have you attempted it?”

      “No, I can’t say I have.”

      “Then you should reserve judgement until you have seen me in action.”

Oh god, Mycroft had truly gotten into character.  This was both the most ridiculous and most adorable thing possible in this world.

      “Let me have a few belts of ouzo before that happens, alright?  Now, joking aside… this could really be helpful to me or it could be nothing.  Don’t get too hopeful that this means the end of my troubles, because it probably won’t be.  I’m suspecting it will be a step or two forward, but not more than that.  Try not to be too disappointed, though, if we leave with little more than a good lunch and you get to put a face to Anderson’s name, not that I’d wish that particular fate on a good and decent person.  Well, here we are.  It’s showtime.”

Greg hopped out of the cab they’d taken from the train station and winced at the cash he had to pay for the fare.  He should probably have Anderson pull some cash for him from the bank while he had the chance.  Or… he could do it, probably.  Not likely that anyone could trace his whereabouts from a cash withdrawal from a bank, so long as he didn’t hang about the bank for a few hours taking out a loan or something.

      “This appears most agreeable.  I was anticipating something… seedier.”

      “You’ll tell Mrs. Hudson that anyway.  You’ll say we had to shoulder past a one-eyed bloke with a suspicious bulge under his jacket and step over a drunk sleeping in the doorway just to get inside.”

      “I… may.”

 _Adorable_.  Mycroft was having an adventure and if that’s the only thing to come out of today, it would be worth the time and effort for the trip.

      “Well, let’s hope she doesn’t ask to see photos, because I am not taking the time to hire local actors to pose for your hard-boiled snaps.”

      “I shall tell her the camera was stolen, so villainous was the den of iniquity.”

      “Smart… ok, here we go.”

Greg opened the door of the decidedly non-seedy, cheery restaurant and let Mycroft walk in first, though it should have been the other way around since _he_ was the wife in their quickly growing village reputation, and strolled in after, briefly looking around until he found his quarry.

      “Over there.  Looks like Anderson _did_ bring his bloke along, too. Good.  Not for my wallet, but I’d rather milk this cow dry now rather than later. Let’s go.”

Mycroft nodded solemnly and Greg smothered a smile at his dear vicar trying to steel his features and make himself look formidable and no-nonsense.  To his credit, Mycroft did that scarily well…

      “Anderson, you troll-faced bastard.”

      “Greg, you brainless bit of rubbish!”

      “I did not agree to suffer the agony of your presence simply to listen to your infantile prattle, Anderson.”

Mycroft’s eyes flew open as wide as they could go and he darted around to see the face of the second person at the table.

      “Sherlock!  What in God’s name are you doing here?”

      “Oh no, an elephant has escaped from the zoo.”

Greg and Anderson shared a look, but Greg’s was far more worrying since he was clued in to the vaudeville playing out in front of them.

      “Sherlock, why are you here and how are you involved in this?”

      “You… I remember you.  Lestrade... I am experiencing no surprise at any of this.  You always were a common criminal and that, apparently, has not changed a bit.”

Greg pulled a chair away from the table and sat down with a force that emphasized his growing irritation at the person currently sneering at him like a sneer-crafting professional.

      “Mycroft, might as well have a seat.  Your brother, the hypocrite, is in deep with things, it seems, and how nice you’re here to see him in his full, shameful glory.”

      “Wait a moment… Sherlock, this is your brother?  You said he was fat!”

Mycroft peered a moment at Anderson, then sighed deeply and took his own seat at the table.  The Lord was seeing fit to test him today and setting in his path a most diabolical challenge, indeed.  One day, his meetings with Sherlock would be a gladdening occasion but this was not to be that day.  Now, he had to contend with a… Gregory… dabbling in criminality and a brother who… who knew what was the story with Sherlock, but that was something he intended to find out.  In extreme and pointed detail…


	11. Chapter 11

      “Brother… I am most distressed to find you involved in this.”

      “Save your sanctimony, Mycroft, for your companion, who requires all you can muster.  Did you make a stop at a prison and secure for him a day pass so he could join us for lunch or was he simply laying in the gutter and you dusted him off for the occasion?”

Greg’s swing to swat Sherlock’s head was deftly dodged, then it was a quick return of said hand to Greg’s section of the table so the just-arrived server didn’t continue to give him a look that asked if the manager needed to be bothered to deal with his nonsense.  Giving her his most seductive grin forestalled that happening and he kept that grin fixed while he asked for a little more time to look at the menu, something that made Sherlock snicker and earn an under-the-table pinch from Mycroft.

      “Enough, brother.  This is a serious matter and your tomfoolery is not helpful.”

      “It _must_ be serious if you were excavated from your holy tomb so your mummy could shamble beyond the borders of your wretched little village.”

      “Your involvement in a criminal matter certainly warrants any amount of my shambling.  Gregory, ask your friend to explain this matter while I have a word with Sherlock.”

Anderson certainly wasn’t expecting this level of entertainment from their lunch, but anything involving Greg always had the potential for fun and games, so his surprise level was acceptably low, on balance.

      “Yeah, Greg.  Ask me to explain all this while your… friend… smacks his brother about for our amusement.”

Sherlock’s snatching away of the folder in front of Anderson nearly produced a brawl to get it back, with only the hand-slapping de-escalation technique implemented by Mycroft preventing all-out war, which was not something he was prepared to tolerate on an empty stomach.

      “I expect behavior coincident with everyone’s age… _physical_ age… while we are here today, and that is my final word on the matter.  Now, Sherlock and I will move to the next table so we might discuss this turn of events in some depth.  Oh, and do order something hearty for me, will you, Gregory?  Sherlock is best endured with a good base in one’s digestive system.”

Smiling genially at Anderson who smirked at Sherlock being dragged off by his ear, Mycroft split the party and Greg had to admire the divide and conquer technique, especially since it left him with the more agreeable member of the other couple at their lunch party.

      “I think someone, who might be _you_ , Greg, has some explaining to do.”

      “Me?  I’m not the one who brought Sherlock where gentlefolk might cross his path.”

      “Ok, you do have a point there, but you wanted to talk directly to my informant and how was I to know you had history with him?  Or, far more interestingly, seem to be staying out of sight in the arms of his brother.”

      “I’m not in anybody’s arms.”

Not yet, anyway.  Well, ok, maybe a little in-arms has occurred, but just to comfort.  Not that that diminished the enjoyment one bit.  Or the occasional daydream which turned that comfort into something involving a bit more kissing and tender gazing into Mycroft’s gorgeous blue eyes.

      “Then why does he talk to you like you’re his wife?”

      “I’M NOT… do you know Mrs. Hudson?”

      “Who?”

      “I… forget it.  Look, Mycroft is an old friend and by ‘old’ I mean from when we were in primary school.  And, yeah, when this shit exploded in my face I decided that finding him and begging a place to stay was a good idea.  Nobody knew he fucking existed, let alone where he’d be, so it was safe.  Now, your turn.  What’s your story with Sherlock?”

      “Informant.  Good to send out and have him stick his nose into things to pull some information my way.  And… he’s smart.  See things that other people, including me, miss.  Gives me some insights on cases now and again, even if I’m not using his data-gathering services.”

      “How’d you meet him?”

      “Arrested him.  He may be smart, but he’s stupid, too.  Drugs issues that he doesn’t think are important, no matter how much I tell him he’s full of shite.  But, it’s also a good way to leverage him to do something for me when I need it.  Always skint and always in need of a little cash for… whatever he’s got a taste for at the moment.”

Perfect.  Apparently, Sherlock’s issues were ongoing and in no way under control.  Mycroft was going to be devastated…

      “No more.  That ends _now_.”

      “You’re not his fucking mother, Greg, mine either.”

      “Believe me, you didn’t want to know her.  As much of an arse as Sherlock can be… well, he learned it from someone.  And, that someone thought he was just precious, and precocious, for it.  But, no more money for drugs.  I don’t care the reason.”

      “Again, not anybody’s mother, but if you want to lend your shoulder to mine trying to convince him to get clean, I’ll welcome you to the club.”

Oh good.  He and Anderson were now sharing a puppy.  Better than some things they’d shared, though, all things considered.

      “Print my membership card and I’ll have it laminated.  Better make one for Mycroft, though, since he’ll leap into the club president’s chair to start drawing up battle plans and ordering tea.”

      “He does seem the take-charge type.  Sherlock was pretty high when he mentioned it, but… Mycroft really clergy?”

      “Yeah.  Got his own picturesque church in one of those villages that’s so quaint you suspect it was built for a film.”

      “Then you _were_ telling the truth yesterday about having to go to church.”

      “Don’t remind me.”

      “You loved it.”

      “I… maybe it wasn’t as bad as I expected, but that was only because I knew the vicar and… he’s not as dreary and boring as most of them I’ve run across.”

      “Well, the vicar bit explains why Sherlock avoids him like the plague.  I can’t imagine Mycroft would be too happy with him dragging around London with a needle in his arm.”

      “Ok, we are absolutely putting shoulders to the job and getting that stupid fucker clean.  And… their troubles go back to the moment Prince Sherlock was born, if you want the truth.  Not on Mycroft’s part… he always loved Sherlock with his whole heart. but Sherlock was happy to take that heart and drive a knife right through the center of it.  Then stomp it flat, with a little spit thrown in for good measure.”

      “Lovely.  Lad’s got some issues, that’s true.  Sad with a mind like his.  But, it worked in our favor here.  Looks like Dimmock has been a very naughty boy, indeed.  Seems to be holding hands with our favorite boy, Declan.”

Greg sighed and thumbed through the folder, hmmm’ing loudly at the printed copies of emails between Dimmock and one the more toxic members of their happy law-ignoring community.

      “Perfect.  Please tell me Sherlock’s not involved with that arse, too, and that’s how he got these emails.”

      “Anyone who does drugs is involved with that prick in one way or another.  Sherlock’s… he may have done a little chemical work for them, cooking up some lovely blends and improving purification methods.”

      “Fucking wonderful.  I’m dragging him to frolic with the sheep and daisies for the next decade, even if I have to sit on him in the sheep field the whole fucking time to keep him there.  You don’t work for Declan’s people without having what’s left of your self-respect fly off into the breeze.”

      “True, but I have to wonder… why are you so concerned with Sherlock, someone you obviously don’t like very much?”

      “Because… Mycroft used to worry himself to a tizzy about that ridiculous berk and he still does.  I know he knows about the drugs, but I suspect he doesn’t know how far in Sherlock’s been drawn onto my side of the line.  That’s bad enough, but any further... that’ll kill Mycroft.  It’ll kill him deader than dead and I won’t have that.”

      “If it helps, I don’t think Sherlock does a lot of that anymore.  He gets bored easily and once he’s tackled a problem, it doesn’t hold his interest.  And the rubbish that work for Declan certainly wouldn’t.  They’re dimmer than a snuffed-out candle.”

      “Yeah, but they’re also nasty and if they want him for something, saying ‘Boring!’ isn’t going to go down well.  Ok, my own neck is on the block and now I have to worry about Sherlock, so Mycroft doesn’t fret himself into an early grave.  Joyful.  Well, if I’m dead those two go down with me, so my neck is saved first.  What’s Dimmock’s connection to Declan?  Anything useful?”

      “Maybe.  Sherlock got into Declan’s computer system and got more than emails.  He got the bastard’s financial ledgers and it seems… well, here.  You look at the various dates and tell me if something strikes you.”

Greg pulled over the folder and ran a finger down the spreadsheet columns, looking at payments and dates, finally seeing what Anderson was indicating.

      “Yeah… he’s definitely got Dimmock on his payroll, which Sid, Pete and a few others won’t like, but… interesting that more than a few of these dates fall a day or two after Declan snatched a deal out from under their noses.  Almost as if he had information about prices or special arrangements that he was able to sneak in and undercut.”

      “I remembered you grousing about an uptick in that over the last year or so and I asked about to see if I was right about certain timeframes. I think we know, now, how Dec was able to see his squalid little operation start to step up to be a real competitor.  Between new business and his old drugs work, I know he’s got people starting to worry and he’s got his mole to thank for that.”

      “Fucker.  I knew Dimmock was a schemer, but… the question is whether or not this is enough to call him out over it.  Are you certain these accounts are his?”

      “Sherlock says so, but his reasons for saying that… I lost track of what he was going on about after he had a turn on the computer.  He seemed convinced about it, though.  And, to be fair, I called the bank for that account there, which had the most recent deposit, and the manager remembered ‘Mr. Blythe,’ because they talked football for a bit while filling out the paperwork.  Description matches Dimmock.  I know he knows the right people to get solid, phony identification and he’s stayed away from the larger banks that run all sorts of checks on you because they’ve already gotten into trouble for this or that illegal goings on.”

      “Any friends who owe you favors able to pull security footage to prove he opened any of these accounts?”

      “Not at the moment.  I may be able to interest a few in CID about the whole business, especially if they can connect it back to Declan, but that’s a big ‘if.’  And, they could easily tip off Dimmock that he’s under investigation and get him to cover his tracks well enough that finding solid evidence would take longer than you actually have.”

      “Shite.”

      “Basically.  However… your lot doesn’t need _legal_ evidence.  I suspect what we already have will make an impression.  Those emails are pretty damning, even if they just set up a meeting here and there.  And this spreadsheet would mean something to someone who lost a LOT of money because of business deals that went suspiciously awry.”

      “That’s true… that’s very, very true.  Be nice if we could get one solid connection between Dimmock and a payment, though.”

      “He’s been smart about only being paid in cash, but that does leave him open for being caught during a payoff.  Sherlock can keep his ears open for another transaction and I can have someone get snaps of that, which won’t be as interesting as the ones I have of Phoebe, but they’d be more useful in the long term.”

      “I want Sherlock out of this.”

      “That’s his decision, not yours.  I don’t think he has anything much going for money right now, so doing this or that job for Dec is keeping him fed.  Well, I do slip him a few quid when he puts information my way, but that’s not regular enough to count for wages.”

      “Then I’ll find him some work.”

      “Oh, got a friendly ear with HR at Tesco or something?”

      “That’s a horrifying thought.  There’d be a riot in under an hour of him being employed.  No… alright, let’s see if we can pull me out from under the lorry that’s fallen on me and I can talk to some of my mates about… cleaner… work for him.  If he’s good with computers and the like, there’s always something that needs to be done that could earn him a nice bit of cash.  First, though, I have to be certain my opening my mouth to vouch for him won’t earn me a fractured skull.”

      “That’s an idea.  Will your Mycroft go for it?”

      “He’s not ‘my’ Mycroft.”

      “Of course he’s not.  Your body language, facial expressions, tone of voice and choice of words when speaking to him mean absolutely nothing.”

      “You are _not_ a detective, you know.”

      “Too much fucking work.  Now, while you continue to pore over my treasure trove of documents and dirty pictures, shall I motion over the server who’s shooting me looks and do something that will ultimately pay for our time at this table.”

      “Yeah, probably a good idea to order some food, seeing as we’re in a place that specializes in that sort of thing.”

      “Don’t forget, your Mycroft wants something hearty.  Let’s get him a meal first, though, before you excuse yourselves to the loo so he can have a nice mouthful of what you brought with you in your trousers.”

      “Fuck you.”

      “Funny you mentioned fucking.  Let’s discuss that in more detail, shall we, and have _your_ Mycroft over to join the conversation.”

Using one hand to make a rude gesture at Anderson, Greg used the other hand to wave over the server.  Glorious… all it took was ten minutes with Anderson for the arsehole to recognize that there was something going on between him and Mycroft.  Or, more precisely, that there was something going on with _him_ that made the ‘him and Mycroft’ bit seem to be far more than it actually was.  He was amazingly lucky that Mycroft had been his friend for so long that any little ‘slips’ on his part looked like deep friendship and nothing more.  Not that ‘more’ was a bad thing, but he had to be certain, completely and unquestionably certain that Mycroft wanted and was ready for that before he took a step in that direction.  There was too much to lose if he made a mess of things and losing Mycroft twice in his life was not something he could bear…

__________

      “Explain yourself, Sherlock.”

      “That is rather a tall order given _you_ are the one who read philosophy at college.”

      “This is no time for your foolishness!  Constable Anderson is a…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Mycroft looked over to make certain they were not being overheard.

      “… corrupt policeman.”

      “And Lestrade, apparently, is a corrupt criminal.  Do you have an actual point or can I get my money from your boyfriend and leave?”

      “Gregory is most certainly not my boyfriend.”

      “Oh, have you had a tiff?”

      “You are very well aware of the nature of our relationship.  He is my oldest and dearest friend, something which you never regarded highly, I know, however, it was an extremely meaningful thing to me.”

      “As I said, I hope your boyfriend brought sufficient funds to recompense me for my time and effort.  Though, if I knew this was to save Lestrade’s skin, I would have reconsidered Anderson’s offer.  I have no idea what would have happened in that case, but it likely would have been highly amusing.”

      “Enough, brother!  Laying aside your continued attempts to irritate me… how have you come to be involved in this, Sherlock?  How does Constable Anderson know you?  How were you able to gain access to information about criminals?”

      “You’re not this clueless, Mycroft.”

      “I most certainly am!  I mean… I have little way to contact you, Sherlock, and know nothing of your life at the moment.  I worry for you, you know I do, and this revelation elevates that worry to a profoundly-distressing degree.”

Sherlock’s rolled eyes and loudly huffed breath were no different than they had been when his brother was young, and Mycroft indulged in a brief moment of memory of the child Sherlock had been, when his petulance and arrogance had been put in place to shield him from a world that had for him not one whit of understanding.  Much, unfortunately, like the world today…

      “Very well.  I occasionally agree to pull Anderson’s head out of his arse when he cannot solve a case on his own.  For that, I receive payment, such as that I will receive from Lestrade today since it _his_ head and arse, this time, that require separating.”

      “Oh… so you are assisting with police investigations.  That… that is not as concerning as I feared.”

      “Given that I earn most of my funds _from_ criminal organizations, the investigation part is pitifully easy to accomplish.”

      “WHAT!”

      “Good heavens, Mycroft, however do you believe I make a living?”

      “You… you have a degree!  A degree in chemistry!  You could find good, steady work in any number of organizations and institutions that are not criminal in nature.”

      “Boring.”

      “Honorable!  Oh Sherlock… what have you done?”

      “ _Used_ my degree, actually, which is something most people can’t claim anymore.”

      “You… Sherlock.  I can only think of one area of the criminal underworld that would require a chemistry background.  Please… please, please, please do not tell me you are involved in drugs.”

      “You’ve known that for years.”

      “Are you or are you not… I have no idea what would be involved, but have you darkened your soul even further in some manner than simply consuming those accursed substances?”

      “Given the concept of a soul is scientifically meaningless, I can easily answer ‘no’ to your question.”

Mycroft held his head in his hands and moaned softly, which made Sherlock smile with pride.

      “Now, while you groan out your dirge, I will pick your lover’s pocket and be on my way.”

Mycroft’s head snapped back up and he readied himself to launch back into the fray.

      “No, you certainly will not.”

      “So, you now admit he is your lover.”

      “I admit no such thing, for it is, in no manner, true.  You are being combative for sake of diverting my attention, however, it will _not_ work.  Sherlock, I have prayed every night for you to find your way, to embrace the gifts our Lord has given you…”

      “I have!  I can proudly claim my cocaine purification techniques are without compare in London.”

      “There is no, absolutely no, pride to be found in that.”

      “I disagree.”

      “Simply because I have stated that as my position.  If I lauded you for it, you would disparage your own efforts.  Perhaps that is the strategy I should use, henceforth, when dealing with you and your… Sherlock, you are better than this.  You are a star, a bright and shining star in the sky and you choose, freely and willingly, to dim your own light.  Why, brother?  Why do this when you could do and be so, so much more?”

      “Perhaps because that would subject me to more of your tedious conversation.  This way, you stay in your horrid little vicarage and well away from me and my life.”

      “Something that will now change.  You are coming home with me and Gregory.”

And do drop your eyebrow immediately, ignoring utterly the very domestic words that just left my mouth.

      “No.”

      “Yes.  This is… I knew you needed help, Sherlock, and I will suffer endless torments, I have no doubt, for failing to provide you the help you needed before this point, however…”

      “And, here you go, reveling in your martyrdom and taking immense pleasure from your self-flagellation.”

      “Incorrect.  Just because you cannot comprehend, let alone feel, brotherly love, kindly do not denigrate mine.”

      “Go back to your fairly land, Mycroft.  Leave me to live my life as I see fit.”

      “I shall not abandon you to your desire for self-destruction, Sherlock.  I should have stepped in long before now but feared I would push you even farther away.  Now, I cannot afford that cowardice.  Please, brother, even if only for a time, please return with us so that we might talk, you and me.  That is something my fairy land had helped with, the few times you have visited, - encouraging our conversation, though it serves no purpose but to postpone your inevitable boredom.”

      “No.  I have things to do and John…”

      “John?”

My, that was a novel expression on Sherlock’s face.  Much as if one could crystallize ‘oops’ and apply it to a person’s visage like powder.

      “None of your business.”

For so many reasons, today was a day of days… this reason, at least, was not steeped in immorality and law-breaking.

      “Au contraire.  In fact, let us discuss your boyfriend in some depth, what say?”

      “John is not my boyfriend!”

      “I sense an untruth on the wind.  One moment.  Oh, Constable Anderson…”

Given what appeared to be a plate of starters was being delivered to the other table, Mycroft decided a re-joining of forces was the next tactical move.  Returning to his chair, the vicar smirked smugly at Sherlock who gnashed his teeth and made a stage-worthy show of annoyance before joining the rest.  With some framework from which to move forward with his brother, Mycroft drew a cleansing breath and prepared to scrape every last bit of enjoyment out that framework and all it encompassed.

      “My, these do look delicious.  Now, Constable Anderson, Sherlock informs me that he has a romantic interest.  Is the gentleman of good character or does he match well with Sherlock’s villainy?”

Suddenly, Greg’s brain forgot his own problems and focused on the riotous possibility of poking Sherlock mercilessly and endlessly over his ‘romantic interest.’  The lad seemed positively allergic to the concept of affection, so this was more than slightly interesting.

      “You mean John?  Fucking sketchy bastard, if you ask me.  Good with sutures, though.”

Now, Greg’s brain wasn’t quite so happy with the turn of events.  Or not.  Being a hypocrite left an ugly feeling in his stomach that not even the phyllo-wrapped morsels in front of him could quash.

      “Wait… not John Watson?”

      “Gregory!  You… you know this person?”

      “If it’s the John we’re talking about.  Sherlock?”

      “I am not speaking to you, Lestrade.”

      “It’s the John we’re talking about.  Well, well, well… that little ball of anger found himself a special someone in our Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s squirming in his chair would have been a touch more entertaining if Mycroft hadn’t felt his worry meter move up a few notches on the dial.

      “Anger?  Oh, I do not like the sound of this ruffian one tiny bit.”

      “John is not a ruffian!  He is a doctor.”

      “Who practices illegally.”

Greg’s pronouncement had Mycroft gasping like an elderly woman who’d found teenagers shagging behind her roses and Anderson laughing at both that and Sherlock’s thunderous pout.

      “Sherlock Holmes!  This person is entirely unsuitable for you!  You will end your association at once!”

      “I will not!  It is not John’s fault his license to practice was suspended.  That the dunderheads failed to even…”

Sherlock’s lips clamped shut and Mycroft saw something he hadn’t seen before in his brother’s eyes – protectiveness and that was not a thing easily dismissed for its uniqueness was tremendously telling.  This John, obviously, was not someone with whom his brother was casually associated… 

      “Gregory, kindly explain.”

      “Ummm… all I know is John _was_ a doctor, also did time in the army, but had his credentials pulled after he came back to London.  He’s good, though!  Does a lot of work for people who… might not want to go to a doctor who’d have to make a record of what ails them or report something to the authorities.”

      “Are you referring to criminals?”

      “Basically.”

      “Stop impugning John’s reputation, Lestrade!  He also helps individuals who the so-called authorities are happy to leave to die to reduce the surplus population.”

Cutting eyes towards Greg, Mycroft hoped that Sherlock’s descent into Dickensian references was something other than pure histrionics.  The small nod his own criminal associate gave him made that hope grow just a touch larger.

      “Thanks, Scrooge.  But, yes, Mycroft… Sherlock has a point.  I’ve heard John does his bit for the homeless when he can.  A few shelters will bring him in on the sly, too, because some of the people they service are too scared of anyone associated with the government, even NHS doctors, to accept any help from them.  So, yeah, John’s another crook in the growing sea of them you know, but he’s not the worst of them, by far.  For the record, the worst would be me, though Sherlock, here, seems to be trying to snatch the crown off of my head.”

Now it was Mycroft nodding, slowly but steadily, as he digested this new piece of information.

      “Well… I suppose, in that, this John is showing much-deserved charity and good-heartedness to those in need, many of whom I have spoken with to know they _do_ harbor a great deal of fear and distrust of anyone with what they perceive as official standing.  But… a mob doctor.  The utter shame of that…”

Greg grinned at Mycroft’s continued wade through Mickey Spillane, but packed it away when he caught Anderson grinning at _him_.  Nosy fucker.  No business analyzing expressions or grins or anything a man should be able to do without worrying that they’re shrieking about how adorable is the man sitting next to him.  It simply wasn’t proper.  But, back to matters at hand…

      “People do what they have to, Mycroft, you know that.  So, how about we enjoy the nice lunch that’ll be coming soon and Sherlock can boast more about his snuggle-bunny.”

      “You are an insipid individual, Lestrade.  I see why Anderson believes it is no more than five years before you are rotting in prison.”

      “Really, Anderson?  What a friend you are.”

      “Sherlock’s telling an outright lie.  I said three years.”

      “Better.  Thought you were insulting my criminal abilities.”

      “Nah, you’re a shady, despicable fucker and you’ll go down hard soon.”

Mycroft watched the friendly, yet unnerving, back-and-forth between the two men and processed the information he had so far.  First, this policeman was as ridiculous and flippant as Gregory, so their friendship was easily understandable.  Second, he, himself, appeared to be the only one at the table who actually had respect for the law.  Third, though he had yet to analyze the data brought to this meeting, Gregory’s mood was light, indicating he was not frustrated or disappointed with what had been collected.

Fourth, Sherlock… well, Sherlock was numbers fourth, fifth, sixth, through umpteenth on the list, however, addressing those points could wait until he met this John Watson and had a conversation with the fellow.  Perhaps John would enjoy a few days in a quiet, scenic location where the air was fresh and a mind could think clearly without the clutter of city life pulling the attention this way and that.  Well, issuing an invitation would be quite the easy thing to do.  And how nice that he now had a police contact to make that invitation one the good doctor could not readily decline…


	12. Chapter 12

      “Are you joking?”

      “Members of the police do not joke, sir.”

      “Fuck you, Anderson.  You’re grinning like a baboon.”

      “Maybe I’m flirting.”

      “Try again.”

      “Just got my teeth cleaned.”

      “Why on Earth would I want to toddle off to the 18th century to have a chat with some kindly old vicar?”

      “You’re a sinner and need the hand of the divine on your shoulder.”

John fumed and stared across the table at the uniformed constable who’d jumped the queue at the coffee shop to lean on the boy behind the till for two free examples of their finest blend, and wondered why he ever agreed to speak to Anderson, let alone be seen in public with him.  Of course, since it usually gained him free food and beverages, he probably shouldn’t think too hard and just enjoy his spoils.

      “Would you please…”

      “How would your attitude change if I told you that the kindly old 18th century vicar was Sherlock’s brother.”

Free food and beverages with a splash of jaw-dropping proclamations, to boot.  However…

      “Wh…what?  Ok, wrong.  Sherlock doesn’t have a brother.”

      “He does and I met him yesterday.  With Sherlock right there so he couldn’t deny it after the fact.”

      “Sherlock has… he really has a brother?”

      “He does and that brother is a friend of, if you can believe it, the train crash that is Greg Lestrade.”

      “God help the poor man.”

      “Maybe that’s why he donned the robes and collar.”

      “Protective armor.  Smart.  Ok, provided you’re not lying through your snaggly, brown teeth, this makes more sense now.  Sherlock’s _brother_ wants me to come out for a visit.  This is one of those checking out the bloke who’s shagging my baby brother things, isn’t it?”

      “No question about it, but I think it’s also to get Sherlock out of London for their own talk, since Mycroft didn’t know about the work Sherlock was doing for a few of our friends.  And not-so friends.  Between that and his personal drugs habit, it seems the older brother gene is shouting loudly and he wants to do whatever older brothers do when that happens.”

Sighing and leaning back in his chair, John suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for this person he’d never met.

      “I can’t blame him for that, not one tiny bit.  Sherlock’s fucking loony if he thinks I don’t know what he’s doing when I can’t find him for a few days.  It… it doesn’t happen often, at least not as often as when I first met him, but…”

      “You’re worried.”

      “Of course, I’m bloody worried!  I can’t even be certain what he’s taking isn’t some experimental concoction he’s made himself.  And I do _not_ like him working for the arseholes he’s been hobnobbing with.  It’s hypocritical of me, given the circumstances, but healing people, even the arseholes of the world, is in a different category than making their arseholery more effective and profitable.”

      “I think he just wanted access to their lab equipment.”

      “Maybe, but that doesn’t make it better.  Now, I have to wonder, of course, why… no, I don’t need to ask why it’s you here telling me about a country holiday and not Sherlock himself because if I haven’t even heard him mention a brother, the brother’s not someone who has a lot of contact, probably because Sherlock doesn’t encourage it.  And the thought of the great raven in a lovely rural hamlet, frolicking among the rabbits and roses… alright, when does… Mycroft was his name?... Mycroft want us there?”

Well, that went a lot easier than Anderson expected.  He’d thought some serious prying was going to be needed to extract John Watson from London, but the former-doctor actually seemed agreeable to the idea.  Which mean John would do a good job of prying Sherlock out of London and not need the extra support of a beleaguered constable who really didn’t have time nor energy for the task.

      “Whenever you’d like, but sooner rather than later, I suspect.  And Greg’s staying there so it won’t just be you standing as peacemaker if the Holmes brothers don’t play nice with each other.  The Greg staying there bit is a secret, though, so don’t go running your fucking mouth about it.”

      “Oh, now that’s interesting.  Forgot about Greg, which is always a good thing, but especially about him being in the wind.  Still got the proverbial price on his head?”

      “We’re trying to change that, but the price _is_ there, for now.”

      “Sherlock mentioned you think Dimmock set him up.”

      “More than think, really, but the key is proof.  We _may_ have enough, but I think Greg would be more confident with a more solid connection between the mobile deal than went to shite and Dimmock’s greedy, scheming fingers.”

      “I’ll keep my ear to the ground.”

      “Thanks.  Of course, though, all your ear is going to hear in the coming days is songbirds and church bells.”

      “Doesn’t sound so bad, actually.”

      “Longing for a little cottage of your own among the fields?”

      “God no.  But, it does a body good to have a change of scenery and pace, once in awhile.  Push the day-to-day pressures out of the way and take some time to enjoy life on your own terms.”

      “And you’re wildly curious about this brother Sherlock’s never mentioned.”

      “That too.”

      “So, when do you want me to say you’re coming?”

      “Day after tomorrow?  I’ve got a few people I have to check in on tomorrow and make certain things are alright before I go off for a few days.  Also, it’ll probably take me a bit to impress on Sherlock that we _are_ going and find him after he tries to hide from me in one of his disgusting bolt holes.”

      “Ask the homeless community.  They always know where he is and twenty quid will buy you the answer.  I don’t even think Sherlock minds that what he sees as his personal network of informants will turn him over when I come calling, since they wouldn’t do it for anyone with nasty intentions and get a respectable wage for their trouble, which they sorely need.”

      “Good to know!  Alright, then… pass along we’ll be on the mor… _maybe_ the morning train day after tomorrow.  Could be in afternoon, depending.”

      “Depending on?”

      “Depending on how long it takes me to get Sherlock out of bed, get him dressed, drag him to the train and chain him to a seat.”

      “They should expect you, then, sometime between lunch and midnight.”

      “Basically.”

      “Well, I have no idea what a vicar does during his day, but I suspect you won’t be upsetting his schedule too greatly.”

      “I wonder about that myself.  Pray?  Do good deeds?  Drink tea?”

      “Isn’t that a bit cliché?”

      “Maybe, but clichés exist for a reason.”

      “Can’t argue with that.  I suspect you’ll find out soon enough, in any case.”

__________

      “Come on, Mycroft.  Drink your tea and maybe you’ll calm down.”

      “I am calm.  _Very_ calm.  Though, it does beg the question why you would even assert I would need to attain such a state in the first place.”

      “Because you’re making me and Mrs. Hudson loony and you already knocked over one vase of flowers while you ran in circles dithering about who was going to sleep where and checked for gremlins hiding under the rugs and behind the sofa cushions.”

      “That is utter fantasy.”

Greg pointed to the rubbish bin in the corner of the kitchen where the sad remains of Mrs. Hudson’s vase and the corpses of the flowers it contained lay peacefully, awaiting final burial.

      “I… that _was_ an unfortunate accident, I do admit.  However, I still take exception to being proclaimed a gremlin hunter.”

      “Alright, I suppose that’s fair.  You’d probably say gremlins are God’s creatures and it’s a sin to hunt them like the evil little bastards they are.  Then you’d have a fundraiser for their widows and orphans if you stepped on a few by accident.  Makes it even more important you have a nice, soothing cup of tea so things don’t get to that point.”

      “Really, Gregory… I am simply…”

Tongue-tied and frazzled, as you have been since I phoned Anderson this morning to get the word on whether Sherlock and John were going to be paying their respects.  A body might think an angel was scheduled to descend tomorrow and hand you a medal for winning Vicar of the Year, rather than your brother crashing through your door with his lover in tow.

      “What’s going on, Mycroft.  You can’t be _this_ excited to meet John.”

      “I certainly can.  You remember Sherlock, remember his temperament which, as you saw during our lunch, has not sweetened over the years.  I have never known him to have interest in anyone, let alone know a person who had interest in _him_.”

      “Never?

      “He does not discuss his personal life with me, requiring me to pry any details from him with what amounts to verbal ropes and horses, so it _is_ possible, I suppose, he has been involved in a romance before this John.  However, I sense that this is something very different than a brief dalliance that would escape my notice and… I simply want him to be happy, Gregory.  A simple, human thing, but something I doubt Sherlock has ever experienced to any appreciable degree, beyond fleeting moments of glee or satisfaction from a scholastic or interest-based success on his part.”

      “He certainly never seemed happy when he was younger.  Surly little thing, which probably is why John’s not the worst in the world to match with him.  If anyone understands surliness, it’s John Watson, the miserable bastard.”

      “I remain worried about that, Gregory, and I will not lie about it.  Do you, knowing my honest concern, continue to vouch for John’s character and that… I will not ask if he is a kind individual, but, at least, one for which I need not harbor concern about abuse or denigration of my brother?”

      “John’s no saint, Mycroft.  Not a white knight either, so don’t have hopes in that direction.  He can do a good measure of violence to a bloke if he has a need, I’ve seen that myself, but… I can’t honestly say I think he’d be the sort to do something to a lover that I’d take his head off his shoulders for.  Something physical, I mean.  You know Sherlock better than me… did he give any signs that he was nervous or frightened?”

      “No, no he did not and I think I would have read those emotions had they been there, no matter how desperately he tried to hide them.”

      “Then, don’t worry.  I’d say… John’s about on par with me on that score.  He’s got his own code of honor and it’s what someone like you might deplore on some counts, but not despise him for.”

      “I could never despise you, Gregory.”

And I know that, no matter the mistakes of your life, you could not do something to _make_ me despise you.  Your heart could not harden or blacken to that point, no matter what hardships or slights this world laid at your feet.

      “What if I said Poe was overrated?”

And who could despise a man such a glorious, teasing smile?

      “Oh dear… oh dear oh dear oh dear.”

      “Or tea is the devil’s drink?”

      “I feel my resolve crumbling.”

      “People with cold feet don’t deserve love.”

      “That is it.  We have reached the bitter end.  The gauntlet has been well and truly hurled and I answer thusly – you are dead to me.”

      “Shit.  I’d hoped to watch that science fiction film on BBC Two tonight and I can’t do that since I’m dead. Can I have a temporary reprieve?”

      “Hmmmm… it is a tremendous thing you ask of me.”

      “Look into your vicary heart and see if there’s still one tiny mote of compassion for my poor, maybe-not-dead soul.”

      “Will you retract your statement about individuals with cold feet?”

      “Ummmm… how about this – people with cold feet who don’t wear socks to bed don’t deserve love.”

      “Given, if one were sharing that bed with another, inflicting one’s cold feet on their person and disrupting their rest, _could_ be considered a selfish act.  Very well, I will compromise with the counter-statement that not wearing socks to bed if one is sharing that bed should merit a full week in purgatory for each offense.”

      “That’s very detailed.”

      “Are we in agreement or are you prepared to enjoy your eternity as a non-alive person, sans the chance to view your film?”

      “Harsh.  But, I respect that, so I agree to your very detailed and specific terms.”

      “Excellent.  This leaves you free to erect the cot to place in the second spare bedroom and tend to the drippy tap in the upstairs bath.”

      “I’m not a plumber.”

      “I have no doubt you are easily up to the challenge.”

      “I… do you have any tools?”

      “I believe there is a box of them in the cellar.”

      “Is there anything in that obx besides a hammer and screwdriver?”

      “Uh…. perhaps?”

      “I’m phoning a plumber.”

      “Nonsense.  There is no need to spend money when you are perfectly capable of remedying the situation.”

      “There is if you don’t want a flooded house!”

      “You shall excel at your task, Gregory.  I have faith.”

      “Hope your faith comes with a life vest.”

      “The Lord will provide.”

      “Then why won’t he provide a plumber?”

      “He did.  There you are.”

      “Wonderful.  You’re keeping me supplied with beer while I work, though.”

      “It is not even noon!”

      “Beer doesn’t acknowledge the clock.”

      “I shall make note of that for future reference.”

__________

      “This is actually amazing, Sherlock.  I know these little villages exist, tucked away in the loveliest bits of England, but I also suspected you had to know the secret path to follow to find them or have the right credentials or genes to be able to cross some magic force field that protected them from the unworthy.”

      “I would gladly be considered the unworthiest man in existence if it spared me setting foot in this valley of boredom.”

      “Which is why _I’m_ looking forward to this.  For a few days, I have no worries, personal, financial or otherwise.   Just rest, relax, enjoy a good book…”

      “Boring.”

      “No, relaxing.  Now, it was kind of that bloke to give us a ride from the station, but which way is the vicarage?”

      “I have forgotten.”

      “That’s pathetic.  I’m going to guess it’s in the direction of that bell tower.”

      “Brilliant deduction.”

      “Thank you.  And, for that, I’ll even carry your bag.”

      “Which you are already doing.”

      “Yeah, but I was going to toss it in that pond over there because you were an arse and tossed it at _me_ when you pulled it from the boot.  Now, I’ll actually carry it further than the nearest body of water filled with duck crap.”

      “You, John, deserve to be victimized by Mycroft’s corpulence and tedium.”

      “I’m regularly victimized by your skinniness and tantrums, so I’m actually looking forward to the change.  Corpulence, you say?  That likely means good food aplenty and that always has my support.”

      “When you have died a painful death from listening to Mycroft drone on about doing good and bothering the Christian deity, do not expect me to embalm your body to safeguard it from the various decomposers that even this sterile landscape has in abundance.”

      “How does something like that even pop up in your head?  There.  There’s my first question to ask your brother about you.  The first of many.”

      “NO!  No… questions.”

      “YES!  Many… many questions.”

      “You are a blackguard, John Watson.”

      “True, but so are you, so what’s your point?”

      “I… yes, that was somewhat of a misstep on my part.”

      “It was.  And, with Greg hanging about, too, that’s a lot of villainy for one small village.”

      “More than you believe for you have yet to meet Mrs. Hudson.”

      “That’s the housekeeper, right?  And a villainess on top of it?”

      “Yes, and she wears it proudly.”

      “Then I’ll compliment her on that and not her frock or hair or whatnot, like I usually do for the ladies.”

      “A surprisingly prudent plan.”

__________

      “There they are!”

Greg ran a calming hand along Mycroft’s back for precisely the number of seconds to be considered friendly and comforting, though nothing more, and smiled at his vicar’s excitement.

      “And John’s carrying all the luggage.  Why am I not surprised?”

      “At least we know he has notable a physical strength and can withstand Sherlock’s myriad of ridiculous demands without resorting to murder.”

      “The last point being far more important than the first.”

      “Most certainly.  Oh, there’s the knock.  Do I…”

      “You look fine, you silly mother hen, now go and meet your little boy’s suitor.”

Mycroft smirked and clucked twice before moving to answer the door.  Yes, he was being outrageously silly, however… this was Sherlock!  _With_ a suitor.  Truly, the situation merited the most extreme of behaviors.

      “Greetings to you both!”

Yes, Gregory, I can hear you sniggering and I will grant that was a _touch_ over the top.

      “Ugh… Mycroft is trying to be genial.  How appalling.”

      “Shut it, you.  Hello, Mycroft.  I’m John.”

      “Very good to meet you.  Please do come in and… Gregory, will you assist John with their bags?”

      “Fuck him.”

      “Gregory Lestrade!”

John threw one of the bags at Greg, who caught it, made a rude gesture, then joined John laughing at Mycroft’s scandalized expression.

      “Why’d you even let that prat Greg into this lovely house, Mycroft?  You’ll have to have an exterminator in to clear the place of the pests that follow their king over there wherever he goes.”

A new round of rude gestures followed that had Sherlock snorting and shouldering his way past John to drop onto the small sofa in the sitting room, putting his feet on the sofa table, and Mycroft realizing just how colorful these next days could be without his most intense vigilance.  Though, upon reconsideration, Mrs. Hudson surely wouldn’t be offended by the color, so perhaps his vigilance could relax just a tad.

      “I am always happy to provide paying work to those in the village, regardless on their manner of employ.”

      “Except plumbers and painters!”

      “Hush, Gregory.  In truth, John, I am happy that our mutual acquaintance, the Lord of Rats, has a friend here now with whom he might converse and learn the news of London.”

      “It’s still a shithole, so not much to report there, but I do have word from Anderson that he wants to talk to you, Greg, when you get a chance.  Not a rush, though.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Greg who shrugged and reminded himself that his cat was out of the bag to Anderson and John, so passing along his new mobile number was probably a good idea to streamline communication.

      “Thanks, John, I’ll phone him later.  Here, let’s put your things in your room and then give Mycroft his chance to show you the village he’s so proud of.”

      “John has already seen the village as we were forced to trudge through it in our own recreation of the March to Bataan, given Mycroft’s refusal to purchase a vehicle or learn to drive.”

      “Your brother has his bicycle, Snitlock, he doesn’t need a car.”

      “I disagree, Catstrade, and my opinion ranks far higher than yours.”

Choosing not to comment on Sherlock’s need for a practice in certain areas of insulting, Greg nodded John towards the stairs and the two toted the bags up towards the bedroom, leaving the brothers to settle into familiar patterns.

      “Sherlock, do try to behave while you are here.”

      “No.  John made me promise not try and escape your prison of sanctimony, but I did not promise anything beyond that.”

      “Joyful.  In any case, do remember that your visit is not only with me, but with Gregory and Mrs. Hudson, and they are not as amenable to your slings and arrows.”

      “I see… you propose to set your attack dogs on me to bend me to your whims.”

      “I admit it has a whiff of the Old Testament about it, but one does what works.  Now… jesting aside, it is good to see you, Sherlock.  It has been far too long since we have had the chance to spend time together.”

      “You mean it is far too long since you have held me captive for one of your lectures.”

      “I do admire my abilities at the lectern, however, that is not my intention here.  I have no doubt we shall talk of many things, but not all shall skirt areas you would class as browbeating or smothering.”

      “That leaves us rather bereft of our standard topics of conversation.  Shall we, then, be discussing primroses?”

      “They _are_ lovely at the moment and I am certain John will be most pleased by the color and traditional beauty they add to my gardens.  I am considering saving seeds from my most hearty specimens this year and seeing if we might expand their reach to a few shadier areas of the garden.  Mrs. Hudson believes…”

      “Stop talking or I will strangle you with my bare hands.”

      “Oh, but I thought you wished to discuss my flowers.”

      “You are fortunate Lestrade is enamored of you, for any person of interest or intellect would have run screaming from your inanity long ago.”

      “Gregory is not enamored of me.”

Feel free to roll your eyes until they unscrew from their sockets, evil boy.  Though do keep those eyes open for further evidence of your claim, if you please.  It seems, at times… though I may be allowing fond wishes to could my judgement… if there _is_ evidence, I cannot rely on my own perceptions to properly recognize it, dismissing it, instead, as the overheated imagination of a rather smitten mind.  Or, more worryingly, I might misperceive something innocent in intent and make a complete fool of myself by acting on that misperception.

Take, for example, the look I have seen on Gregory’s face that would be so, so very easy to interpret as… affection.  Not for a friend, even a dear one, but for someone cherished and beloved.  A second set of eyes could be very helpful, at the moment, to quash or support that interpretation.  If there were a chance, albeit a slight one… to let it fall through my fingers like water… the thought is positively terrifying.

      “Incorrect.”

      “Very correct.”

      “Now who is being inane?”

      “You.”

      “The inanity is in your unsupported pronouncement of ardor.”

      “You smell of weasel fur.”

      “What?  What is wrong with you?  Have you gone mad?”

      “Your statement was ridiculous, so I responded in kind.”

Of course, it would be more agreeable if that second set of eyes were not part of Sherlock’s exceedingly thick and stubborn skull…

__________

      “Separate beds.  Very proper.”

John looked around the small, sparse room and marveled that it looked exactly as he predicted.  The propriety was positively screaming from the matronly, floral wallpaper.

      “Actually, you bastard, both spare bedrooms have one-person beds, so there’s nothing particularly proper about it.  If you think about it, that Mycroft had me put the cot in here rather than another place speaks volumes about his feelings on randiness between the unmarried.”

      “You know, that’s true.  I suppose Mycroft’s one of those modern-type vicars.”

      “Uh… in some ways, yes.  In others, he’s as ancient as the pyramids, but it makes for a successful blend for the work he does.  So, now it’s just us, what does Anderson want to talk to me about?”

John tossed his bag onto the cot, which he knew would end up being his since it was visibly harder and smaller than the bed, and ran a hand through his hair while taking a breath to fuel his words.

      “Maybe you’ve got the start of some reason to be hopeful about pulling your neck from the noose.”

      “Really?”

      “He’s doing a bit of feeling out with the information he and Sherlock found, and there are definitely interested persons wanting to know more.  Apparently, Dimmock’s not been as careful with all of his scheming as he should have and he’s said a few things here and there that struck certain ears as curious and unhappily interesting.  This is feeding into that existing concern and in a way that favors you not being the reason that counterfeit mobile phone sale crashed and burned.”

      “Ooh, this sounds promising.”

      “He’s got some thoughts on how to move forward, but… well, you can talk to him about it.  Right now… is there anything you can tell me about Mycroft that _I_ need to know?”

      “Like he’s a serial killer?”

      “Fucker.  No, like what to avoid so he doesn’t toss me out on my ear.”

      “He wouldn’t do that.”

      “No?”

      “No.  He’d make _me_ do it and then fix any damage to the door or window I tossed you through to do the evicting.”

      “Anderson’s right.  You two _are_ married.”

      “Wrong.  I’m just being especially helpful, since I’m imposing on his hospitality.”

      “Well, that story will probably fool the nice old ladies who stop in for tea with their vicar, but you’d be laughed out of London if you tried it there.”

Actually, from what John remembered of his grandmother, that sad excuse likely didn’t fool the old ladies of the village either.  They’d probably be polite about it, though, just nodding along while shooting each other knowing looks over the rim of their teacup.

      “I’m going to tell him you’ve got syphilis, you nasty little gnome.”

      “I’ve got a medical degree, so I can give myself a note saying that’s not true.”

      “Watch yourself, Watson, because _I’ll_ be watching you and doing it all the harder.”

      “That your best glare, Greg?  You’d lose to a friendly budgie.”

      “Shit.  I know you’re right without even seeing myself in the mirror.  It’s the air.  Full of holiness and kind thoughts.  Beats the glare right out of a man.”

      “So that’s what’s been making my skin itch.  I was wondering about that.”

      “That’s how it starts!  Next, you’ll be pulling weeds in the garden.  I’ve got some cream you can use to hold back the effects, but there’s no actual cure, I’m afraid.”

      “Very kind of you, Mrs. Holmes.  You’re the perfect wife for a vicar.”

      “Fuck you.”

      “Sorry, that’s what you’ve got a husband for.”

__________

      “I have to say, Mycroft, you really do have a lovely church.”

It was ancient, postcard-perfect and if anyone was beaming with pride about it more than Mycroft, it was his lovely wife, Greg.

      “Thank you, John.  I feel most fortunate to have been granted this small slice of our Lord’s grace and beauty.”

      “You badgered your bishop into giving you this church when the last prisoner of the cloth who manned the post was reassigned.”

      “Untrue, brother.  I simply presented an argument that outlined most effectively why I was the most appropriate candidate for this congregation.”

      “And reminded him of, what was it… a certain matter involving church finances that were practically sodden from being under a thundercloud of suspicion and scrutiny.”

John and Greg both grinned widely and Mycroft’s slight flush made their grinning gleam all the more brightly.

      “That is a deliberate misrepresentation of the facts, Sherlock, and you know it.  Yes, there were issues with certain financial ledgers, but they were due, primarily, to incompetence of the person charged with maintaining those ledgers.  I offered to rectify the accounting errors and attend meetings with the church officials making inquiries _into_ said ledger and, when that was completed, I, for my service, was rewarded with a posting for which I had expressed interest.”

      “Meaning you doctored the official records with sufficient skill that the auditors could not prove any fiscal malfeasance.”

      “There was no fiscal malfeasance!  Only fiscal… naivete. Something for which I provided guidance so that a similar situation has never again arisen.”

      “Sherlock, are you saying your brother is, effectively, one of those book-cookers that keep the shady businessmen out of jail when the tax man comes calling?”

Mycroft’s irritated huff at John’s teasing earned him an unthought-about squeeze at the back of his neck from Greg, which Mycroft certainly did not lean back into to bolster the sensation.

      “If Fatcroft was not infatuated with the scent of candles and pew polish, he would probably be one of London’s most devious and manipulative influence-peddlers.”

      “I am also, brother dear, far too taken with my silhouette when I wear my eccleastical robes to ever forsake them for a business suit and tie…”

John had to admit that Sherlock’s brother wasn’t the dry, humorless clergyman he had worried about when he learned of Mycroft’s existence.  Yes, a bit stuffy and formal, but not one to sermonize on sin or lax moral values or anything of the like.  And, he certainly didn’t mind Greg’s hands all over him, not that either of the idiots seemed to realize that’s what was happening.

      “... Besides, I value too greatly the peace and quiet to be found in the haven I have discovered.  Tell me, John, are you hoping to remain in London or do you hope for a more restful environment such as we have here?”

There, that was not too obvious an attempt to gain a statement of intentions from the good doctor, now was it?  Oh no… Gregory is smiling and shaking his head.  That is not a good sign.

      “John is not leaving London!”

      “Thank you, Sherlock, but John, who is _me_ in case you were confused, can answer for himself.  I don’t have plans to relocate from London, actually, Mycroft.  I’ve always enjoyed the city, despite its many problems, and I don’t see myself living anywhere else.  Maybe one day, the sort of day when I’m doddering about in a cardigan with reading glasses perched on my nose, I’ll look for a cozy little place that can offer me a nice cottage and respectable local pub without any young hooligans being loud and causing a fuss.  Until then, though, I’m content.  Besides, Sherlock would shrivel into a ball and weep if I even broached the idea and I can’t have that on my conscience.”

The sign was not as not-good as expected!  Thank you, John, for being a fount of information and for recognizing Sherlock’s nearly-lethal allergy to anything tranquil and serene.

      “Excellent.  It is good for a person to know their likes and wants.  And, I suppose you exorcized what might remain of youthful wanderlust during your military service.  Army, I believe, is what Gregory indicated.”

Though, the turn of the conversation does not quite light the fire in your eyes that I had anticipated, Mr. Watson.  Curious.  Most are very eager to discuss their military careers.  Ah… except for those who do not for compelling and sorrowful reasons.

      “Yeah, Army.  Did my time as a surgeon, helping keep our finest in fighting shape.”

      “And I, for one, offer my thanks to you for it.  It is the bravery and commitment of the few that preserve for the many what we cherish and hold dear.”

John seemed a little rattled by Mycroft’s warm and sincere gratitude and that bit of information was filed away, along with his other observations, by the vicar, who was always watchful for a troubled soul.

      “Oh… well, you’re welcome.”

      “I would very much like hearing of your time in the military, when we have a moment for such a conversation.  I have known a number of veterans of various conflicts who are somewhat reluctant to discuss their experiences, lest it appear they are being boastful or self-aggrandizing, but I assure you that my ear is most eager to hear your stories.”

      “I… yeah, I suppose that is true, now that I think about it.  I think they’re the minority, though.  Most of the lads I served with are happy to talk your ear numb about their time overseas, even if all of it is a large and outlandish lie.”

      “Even better, for I do appreciate a well-embellished tale of adventure.  I must say, I look very forward to our chat.  I have no doubt I shall be at the edge of my seat in short order.”

Now it was Sherlock and Greg sharing a look because they’d both seen Mycroft in ‘vicar’ mode often enough to recognize the signs.  Poor John… he had no idea what he was in for and even Sherlock knew there was no stopping Mycroft when the holy meddling was running hot in his blood.

      “That’s… yeah, that should be fun.  Sherlock hates hearing my stories, so It’ll be nice to share a bit about the accomplishments our troops saw towards keeping this society of ours safe.”

Mycroft’s smile was encouraging and anticipative, which he knew would lay another layer of comfort in John’s mind about their upcoming talk.  A talk that _would_ occur when he was able to get the man alone and feeling sufficiently safe for his heart to open and allow in someone who cared enough to help.  There was a heaviness weighing on that heart and it was the great blessing of his life that he was in a position to help lighten its load.

      “Delightful.  Now, if you would like, there is a most hooligan-lacking pub in the village that would welcome a table of mature and serious-minded gentleman who appreciate a flavorful pint of ale.”

      “Now, _that_ is a stellar idea.”

      “Ugh… rubbing shoulders with the rabble.”

      “Yes, brother, or should I say, Your Highness.  In any case, Mrs. Hudson will surely appreciate our absence from the vicarage while she prepares our evening meal and I will be honored to point out the various points of interest in our lovely village during our walk.”

      “John and I have already walked the distance from the Earth to the Moon today!”

      “Oh good, then this should not tire you unduly.”

Giving Greg a nod, Mycroft was content to see his message received and his houseguest, the original one, give Sherlock a shove to start him moving.  So far, this visit was going astonishingly well and, with luck, would continue on that path.  Sherlock’s conduct was on par with his usual standard and John was doing a laudable job of putting to rest any worries on the issue of being an acceptable companion for the brother he loved so dearly.

Of course, he would discuss matters with Gregory when they had a moment to themselves in order to gain _his_ observations and conclusions about this initial phase of Sherlock’s and John’s holiday, for Gregory would view the situation through a different, though equally useful, lens and alternate opinions were helpful for matters of a personal nature.

Perhaps they have their discussion during a private stroll after dinner, while Sherlock took his paramour for their own walk under the stars, in decidedly the opposite direction.  Though, dear brother had zero capacity for romantic gestures, if his history was a map for the present, so a little nudge might be in order to set that course of events in motion.  Since a nudge from him would produce naught but Sherlock’s most obstinate behavior in response, Gregory would need to take charge of the nudging, something he would surely do in a wholly successful fashion.

It was a utterly striking thing how competent and effective was Gregory for a staggering diversity of things and not all of them criminal.  He would ensure that the awe he experienced at this competence was fully expressed during their evening constitutional.  It would not do for Gregory to believe he was being taken for granted.  Not when that was the furthest possible thing from the truth.  One did not take such a man for granted if one had hopes of… yes, Sherlock’s eyes would be highly useful at this particular point in time.  Intimate walks under the moonlight could only be taken so often before one had difficulty controlling one’s longing and… urges.  And, his urges were not the sort to be unleashed without perfect confidence they would be welcomed.  And returned with great enthusiasm…


	13. Chapter 13

John squirmed slightly under Mrs. Hudson’s intense scrutiny and hoped he wasn’t actually beginning to break into a sweat.

      “Well, you look normal.  Surprisingly.”

      “Ummm… thank you?”

      “You’re welcome.  Now, go and see yourself ready for dinner.  It’s in ten minutes.”

Taking that as his dismissal, John bowed to the queen of the house and scurried off to glare at the other three men who had quickly darted into Mycroft’s study when Mrs. Hudson demanded John pay his respects.

      “Thanks for that, you bastards.”

      “My housekeeper does prefer to take the measure of our guests at her earliest opportunity.”

      “She says I look normal.  Is that good?”

      “I would say it is better than a vast myriad of alternatives.”

John credited Mycroft’s point with a small nod, then smacked Sherlock hard on the arm for leaving him unprotected and alone with someone who could easily go toe to toe with the most nefarious, brutish of London’s malefactors and not only knock their heads, but make them pull up their socks and give their faces a wash in the process.

      “Assault!”

      “You couldn’t even stand there and introduce me?”

      “Why would I do that?  You know your own name.”

John almost mentioned something about politeness, then remembered who he was talking to, and simply motioned for Mycroft to pour him a glass of whatever it was they were already drinking.

      “In any case, dinner is in ten minutes, gentlemen, and I suspect it’s a poor decision to be late.”

Even Sherlock nodded in agreement with that statement and John gave Mrs. Hudson another point in the ledger for keeping rascals and ne’er-do-wells in line.

      “After dinner, John, Gregory and I often have a constitutional before a game of backgammon, reading or a spot of telly.  Do feel free to, along with Sherlock, engage in any of those pursuits as you see fit.  Of course, there is also the pub we visited this afternoon or another, if that is more to your tastes.”

      “I’m more than content with something quiet and relaxing, actually, Mycroft.  Brought along a few books with me that I’ve been hoping to read and that’s about the extent of my ambition for this holiday.”

      “John!  It is boring enough simply being here that your adding more boringness to the experience elevates this to pure, and prohibited by a slate of international laws, torture!”

      “Poor you.  Poor _deceitful_ you is more the case since I know for a fact you put a few books of your own in your luggage.”

      “I… why are you inspecting the contents of my luggage?”

      “A man knows what’s hitting his leg when he’s forced to carry a lazy prat’s bags.”

      “Oh.  Carry on.”

Watching the bickering with great interest, Greg had a mental laugh that if you asked him who would make a good match for Sherlock, he would have said Medusa, but John was stepping up to the role with incredible success.

      “Cordial, as always, brother dear.  However, I shall consider the after-dinner plans settled.  Gregory and I shall have our stroll and you both are most welcome to enjoy your reading choices with a glass of whatever you might find in my modest supply of spirits.”

Which, to John, honestly sounded like heaven on Earth.  His current life in London wasn’t horrendous, by far, but, sometimes, the stress from a variety of directions was difficult to bear.

      “Absolutely the best prescription I could write for someone ready to see a bit of relaxation.”

Sherlock’s death rattle was a familiar song, so it was very easily ignored as the conversation moved from relaxation to other general topics before the dinner bell sounded and ushered in another convivial round of conversation, punctuated only by the pauses to sample Mrs. Hudson’s cooking which had John immediately wishing he had a Mrs. Hudson of his own, even with her grandmotherly-dictator tendencies.

With stomachs merrily full, the four men paired off, two moving to collect their night’s reading and two donning jackets to begin what was becoming something of a ritual to start their evenings.  The silence that accompanied the walk through the garden and out onto the small lane behind the vicarage was comfortable and entirely unforced, but Greg knew it had to end at some point and picked the point where they turned out of sight, and earshot, of the house to make the break.

      “Alright, Mycroft.  Let’s hear it.”

      “Hear what?”

      “Your honest, unfiltered opinion about John the Dodgy Doctor.”

      “Ah, yes.  I would say… I am intrigued.”

      “Is that good or bad?”

      “Good, actually.  I imagined someone far different, yet John is a man of intellect and principle.  I was most pleased with his demeanor and, more, his treatment of Sherlock.  It strikes a very successful balance between supportiveness and admonishment, something my brother needs desperately to better learn how to interact with the world in a productive manner.  And, it is very clear that Sherlock is content in John’s presence.  He is… he is happy, Gregory.  All I have ever wanted for him is to be happy and, in this aspect of his life, he _has_ achieved it.  My prayers have been answered and I am profoundly grateful for it.”

      “Then why did you say intrigued and not something more… excited?”

Greg watched Mycroft’s face move through a series of expressions that gave evidence of the vicar mulling how to say what was on his mind and how much he should divulge about someone who might desire his confidence at some point very soon.

      “For the reason… I sense a pain in John, one that is most woven into his being and that is a worrying thing to me, for I further sense it is not a pain for which he has reached out to seek help.  Do you have any idea of what might be the cause?”

      “No, I don’t, but I don’t know John particularly well.  Our paths have crossed a few times, but not so much as to encourage talking about personal things.”

      “Then I shall make my own inquiries.  Sherlock is clearly aware of the situation, though he will certainly not share any of it with me, so I will have a private chat with John when I can pry Sherlock from his side.”

      “I can help with that.  Drag his skinny arse off for a bit and give the two of you time to talk.”

      “I would appreciate that, Gregory, thank you.  It is my duty to offer help whenever I see the need and I shall not forsake this opportunity, now that I know the need exists.”

      “I wouldn’t expect any less!  Even a rotten criminal like John deserves a bit of help now and again.”

      “Very true, though, his criminality seems of a very benign nature.”

      “I suppose… not like mine, that’s for certain.”

This new series of expressions was for a far different reason than the first, as Mycroft pondered whether this was a good time to broach something that had been on his mind since Greg arrived.  Given the saying ‘no time like the present’ was one that had his staunch approval…

      “I… I would like to know more about your criminal nature, Gregory.  You speak only in vague terms about what you actually do in the context of your… career.”

      “Yeah, and that’s intentional.  Don’t want you to be more disappointed in me than you already are.”

      “You might find that I am more comforted, actually, knowing clearly your boundaries and limits.”

No, you wouldn’t.  However… given some of the pies my fingers are in aren’t the nastiest sort and might be good places for Sherlock to move his skills until he can find something less shady to do to earn his living, some honesty on the subject isn’t the worst idea in the world.

      “Moving stolen things from thieves to buyers, mostly.  Or… getting the right thieves for the job so that the thieving occurs, in the first place.  I do more than my share with counterfeit wares, counterfeit money sometimes, too.  Dabble in forged documents, bit of smuggled goods… this and that, mostly.”

      “I see… that does not sound…”

      “Legal?”

      “Harmful.  I mean…”

      “By harmful, you mean hurting people.  Violence.”

      “In a sense, but not fully.  There are many non-violent crimes that bring harm and distress to people who certainly do not deserve it.  Examples of fraud or deceit that brings them to ruin more than could even a theft, which might be covered by some form of insurance, the providers of which certainly are not examples of the impoverished in our society.”

      “Oh… I suppose that’s true.”

And the times a bit of violence _does_ arise is not something you need to know about, my dear Mycroft.  I’d rather you keep a somewhat sanitized version of me in your mind as long as possible.  And this does offer me an opening I can use…

      “I was thinking, actually… I know you’re not happy with the lot Sherlock’s been working with…”

      “I most certainly am not!”

      “Well, until he finds something more… appropriate for his talents, I thought _I_ could find something for him to do to earn a wage.  It wouldn’t be particularly legal, but it wouldn’t be responsible for hurting people and might help to keep him away from an excess of whatever he’s pumping into himself.”

Mycroft stopped and stared at Greg, entirely unsure of how he felt about the suggestion.

      “That is a… oh, Gregory, I do not like the idea of Sherlock continuing to stand on the wrong side of the law in any fashion.”

      “I know and I wouldn’t expect it to be permanent.  Just something... think of it as a first step.  Move him towards something safer, keep a bit of money in his pocket, then we look for a second step he can take.  I can guarantee you that John’s about as happy with things as you are, so he’d be happy to see something change, too, even if the change is a small one for now.”

It took Mycroft’s mind a second to alert him to the ‘ _we_ look for a second step’ in Greg’s speech, but when it did, he took a small, private moment to revel in the warmth that filled him because of it.  There was strong whiff of… longevity… to the words that appealed to him a great deal.

      “There is a certain logic to that plan, I suppose.”

      “I don’t know about logic, but it’s got potential, I feel.  Of course, Sherlock will likely refuse just because it’s me making the offer, but…”

      “If John lends his support to the idea, my suspicion is Sherlock will give it serious consideration and, most probably, agree, though he will make a tremendous show of how much agony it is causing both his body and his soul.”

      “I’ll buy him some lozenges.  Alright, then, maybe I’ll do that while you have your chat with John.”

      “Maximizing our efficiency is something I greatly applaud.”

Notice how I counter your ‘we’ with my ‘our,’ Gregory.  And how lovely it sounded on my tongue.

      “It’s a plan!  We always were a good team; nice to know that hasn’t changed.”

      “Yes, we _are_ most formidable, I believe..”

      “That we are…”

And it’s getting harder and harder to think about breaking up our formidable team, Mycroft.  I don’t know if that’s a good thing for you, but…

      “You know, Mycroft… someone like you… it strikes me as odd that you haven’t been snatched by some bloke to make the other half of _his_ formidable team.”

That was the most awkward thing ever spoken by a human in the history of humans.  Probably longer than that!  Bacteria were likely embarrassed right now.

      “Oh, Gregory… that is terribly kind of you to say.”

Awkward, but still making Mycroft happy!  Bacteria giving tentative support for human-based awkwardness!

      “Just being honest.  I know you’ve been in relationships before… it didn’t seem like any went very far, though.”

      “And you would be correct.  In truth, I gave no real thought to anything particularly committing when I was a part of those relationships.  I was more concerned with the immediate, tangible, physical benefits.”

      “Ooh, now that’s a story I want to hear more of.”

Not really, though, so don’t take that bait because it was stupid, stupid, stupid to toss out into the water.

      “Gregory, I am not referring to anything tawdry.”

      “Oh.”

Bait sinking to the bottom where my chums, the not-embarrassed bacteria can have a feast to celebrate my not making a complete fool of myself.

      “Well… not entirely.

The bacteria have forsaken me!

      “Hmmmm… what then?”

      “More… the companionship involved.  Having someone with whom to share experiences, such as a film or walk through a museum.  I am highly content with my own company, but the ability to discuss, debate, even argue about matters of import, or even silly, pointless matters… it _is_ an enjoyable thing and I found men who served that role for a time.  Though, I shall not deny the tawdriness did not offer _some_ appeal and my thoughts were not necessarily the stuff our BBC would present during the traditional hours of family television viewing.”

      “Sexy thoughts!  Those can certainly be worth having.”

And… since it was a night that was offering him openings and the fucking bacteria had declared him completely on his own…

      “You know, I always wondered… did you ever have sexy thoughts about me?  Oh shit…”

Catching Mycroft after he tripped over his feet and nearly fell face first in the dirt wasn’t quite the answer Greg was expecting, but, maybe, it was more informative than he first thought.

      “I… thank you.  But, good heavens, Gregory, whatever brought that to your mind?  You are most silly tonight.”

Deflection!  Oh, this could be the most brilliant thing in the world…

      “It’s an obvious question!  Puberty stirs a lot of things and I wasn’t the ugliest boy in London…”

      “You were my dearest friend.”

      “What does that matter?”

      “It… it would not be appropriate.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because… it would not.”

      “That’s weak.”

      “The truth is not weak.”

      “It is if it doesn’t make sense.”

      “I thought that was most sensical.”

      “Sensical?  Is that really a word?”

      “Yes, you are simply more used to hearing the converse.”

      “Learned something new!  Now, let’s make it two new things.”

      “Now, you are simply teasing.”

      “Nope, not at all.  In fact… oh, that looks perfect.”

Mostly because it’s a place to sit down and what I’m trying to do is starting to make me weak in the knees.  Rather not the be the second of us to start plummeting to the ground and, very probably, ruin the mood I may be trying to build.

      “Gregory… what are you… get down from that wall!”

      “No, you get up here _with_ me.  Nice place to sit, don’t you think?  Keeps your arse off the ground, but lets your feet have a bit of a rest.”

      “My feet are feeling most vigorous.”

      “Well, mine aren’t, so sit your bottom on this nice piece of ancient stone and let my feet rest awhile, like the compassionate man you are.”

Mycroft snorted loudly, but Greg’s patting the space next to him finally had the vicar hopping up and settling uneasily on the wall.

      “There… isn’t that cozy?”

      “The stone is both frigidly cold and hard as a miser’s heart.”

      “There aren’t any of those spikes in it, though, to give you a special thrill.  Now, back to my question…”

      “I propose we speak of other things.  Dogs, perhaps.  Or some of Asimov’s shorter works of fiction.”

      “Wrong.  Tell me, Mycroft…”

      “You are _most_ tenacious this evening.  Is your meal digesting properly?”

This was going to take drastic measures.  Very, very drastic measures.  Luckily, he was sitting down…

      “My meal is digesting perfectly well, thank you.  And I _will_ tell Mrs. Hudson that you implied her food gave me stomach trouble.”

      “You fiend!”

      “Something we’ve already firmly established.”

      “You do have a valid point.”

Ok, now trying to make Mycroft laugh and falling fully into procrastinating mode, while _drastic_ falls unused by the wayside… when you’re handed an opportunity you only have yourself to blame if you’re too cowardly to grab it.  Greg Lestrade was many things, none of them good, but he wasn’t a coward… girding the loins…

      “And here’s another one.  I did.”

      “You did?  Did what?”

Ready?  Are you sure?  Fuck it, dive in and start swimming…

      “Had thoughts.  About you.”

Greg actually grew worried since Mycroft didn’t seem to be breathing and poking him only made the vicar lean sideways and have to be pulled back to plumb.

      “That… you… no… that’s…”

      “Shit, I’ve broken your brain.”

      “Ummm… no?”

      “That didn’t sound convincing.”

      “I… I suppose not.  Gregory… you said you… you did not understand your sexuality until much later!”

      “True, but that’s part of what made things confusing to me.  You were my friend, but I’d also notice you arse when you bent over to pick up something.”

There he goes again.

      “Mycroft?  Blink or something if you’re still alive.”

      “I ap… I apologize, I simply… really?”

      “Yeah.  Especially in the summer when you wore those thin trousers you liked because they didn’t make you sweat as much.”

      “Gregory… you never said anything.”

      “Of course not!  I mean…”

Mycroft’s brain was broken – use that to your advantage!

      “… it’s not like you said anything to me, either.”

      “How could I?  To tell you how utterly beguiling I thought you… oh my.  You blackguard!  You tricked me!”

Being a criminal sometimes comes in handy.

      “And it worked!  Tell me more, Mycroft.  Regale me with all your impure thoughts.”

      “I… Gregory, it is… I…”

Budging closer Greg reached over to rub Mycroft’s leg and bask in the warmth of the heat on Mycroft’s face.

      “They were _that_ impure?”

      “Gregory…”

      “Well, I’m not feeling so strange about _my_ thoughts, then.  There’s nothing wrong with them, you know.  Especially at that age.”

      “It was… shameful.”

Oh, that’s not a look I like to see on your face, Mycroft.  Or a thought I want you to have in your head.

      “No, it wasn’t.  Nothing wrong with having wankable thoughts about someone.”

      “GREGORY!”

      “What?  Again, especially at that age.  All it took was the wind blowing in the right direction and my hand was on my cock.  Mum gave me more than a few looks when I mentioned ‘she’ was getting low on lotion.  Nothing, at all,  wrong with having a nice wank with a good fantasy about more than a stiff wind in your mind.”

      “YOU WERE MY FRIEND!”

There was an ardency in Mycroft’s voice and desperation in his eyes that startled Greg for a long moment, but also set something slithering through his brain that started to inspire more than a wistful bit of hope in his heart.

      “Yeah, and you were mine.  I still lay in my bed and got hard when I thought about that lovely arse of yours.  Not a bit of shame to be found there because, first, that’s normal for boys with more hormones in their blood than blood and, second, yours was…and still is… an arse to be proud of.”

      “That… that is irrelevant.”

      “I’d say your arse is _very_ relevant and, apparently, a few other blokes think so, too.”

      “This is not a joke!”

      “It’s not a rain of fire, toads and black magic either.”

      “It was profoundly disrespectful to you.”

      “To think I was so luscious that you were able to show yourself a nice time because of it?  How in fucking creation could that be disrespectful?”

      “To lust after your body when… when you were so special.  So very, very special and important to me.”

      “Uh… that actually sounds like… Mycroft, that sounds like sexy thoughts weren’t the only sort that were knocking about in your head.”

Mycroft had leapt off the wall and was briskly walking down the quiet lane before Greg had the presence of mind to realize he was now alone, something he quickly changed by hopping down and doing is own bit of brisk walking to catch up with the clearly agitated vicar.

      “Mycroft, stop.  Just stop.”

It took several more steps for Mycroft to come to a halt and he simply stood there, stock still, with his back to Greg and his eyes cast upwards, making Greg wonder if Mycroft was imploring the aliens to perform one of their standard abductions and whisk him away from this conversation.  Given Greg wasn’t entirely convinced aliens didn’t exist, he stepped behind Mycroft and wrapped his arms around the vicar’s waist to act as ballast should a force field begin tugging him up to the stars.

      “Gregory, please…”

      “No, because I think this is something we should talk about.”

      “I disagree.”

      “And I disagree with your disagreement.  I mean… I _was_ being a bit of a berk a moment ago, though I honestly do believe there’s nothing wrong with a randy lad having a wank to whatever makes his cock hard, but… this is different, isn’t it?”

      “I have _no_ desire to continue this discussion.”

      “I’m certain you don’t, but I think we should.  I think…”

Sometimes you found yourself at a crossroads in this life and it wasn’t a silly, inconsequential one, but one that could change the course of your life forever.  Who thought inventing those was a brilliant idea!  The aliens?  Mycroft’s God? And why didn’t they drop a few hints to let you know which way to go?  Make it more like one of those game shows and not one of the most critical decisions of your entire fucking life.

      “…I think, maybe, it’s one we should have had a long time ago.”

      “No, please, Gregory, do not make me do this.”

      “Ok… then maybe it’s me that should do it, if that makes it easier.  I was awake the whole night before you left for Uni, Mycroft.  Wide awake and fighting the urge just to go to your flat, storm through the door and tell you not to leave.  Not to leave _me_ , because I couldn’t imagine my life without you.  Felt like my bloody heart was breaking and… I think that’s actually what it was.”

For a man already standing still, Mycroft’s body turned into more of a stone that the one he’d been sitting on when he was atop the wall.

      “What?  Gregory… what are you saying?”

      “Probably what you think I’m saying.  I always knew you were different from the rest, but I could pass that off as you being the best friend I had in the world.  I knew you had a body that excited me, even if I didn’t understand that I could _get_ excited by a man’s body, but I had ways of explaining that away, too.  You could make me laugh, make me genuinely feel confident, as opposed to _seeming_ like I was confident because I could put on a good show.  You took me seriously, saw me as more than a stupid thug and I felt like more, much more, than some stupid thug when we were together.  You were the only person who could calm the anger and frustration in me from all the shit around us and… yeah.  You can pass all that off as what your greatest, dearest friend _should_ do, but… that’s not how it felt sometimes.  That’s not how it felt most of the time, actually…”

Deciding he’d already laid everything he could lay on the line, Greg took the final plunge and gently placed a kiss at the base of Mycroft’s graceful neck, then smiled wickedly at the soft, contented sigh he received as his reward.

      “I let you go, Mycroft, without a word of complaint because I knew you were heading towards a fucking amazing future and that’s not a future you’d ever be able to find staying with me.  But, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done…”

Greg tightened his arms around Mycroft’s waist and laid another kiss on Mycroft’s skin, following that one with a few others because he’d wanted this for so long and there wasn’t any protest coming from the man in his arms who, actually, was leaning his head slightly so his neck was more accessible to Greg’s tender affections.

      “So, there you have it.  I lusted mightily after your body and felt my heart break when you left.  What all of that means, if it means anything at all, I don’t know but...”

Greg simply ran out of words and was very happy that Mycroft began stirring in his embrace because he’d never made a speech like that before and was at the bitter end of what passed for his stupid thug eloquence.  Though, loosening his grip slightly so Mycroft’s small wriggle could accomplish its job of turning the vicar around, it was readily apparent that his stupid thug eloquence was up to the task, when he saw the faint glisten of moisture in Mycroft’s eyes, made all the more beautiful by the reflection of moonlight that gave those eyes a luster that had Greg’s heart skipping a beat.

Standing silently, waiting for Mycroft to say something, Greg started to give an encouraging smile, only to have it cut short when Mycroft leaned in and with extreme hesitance, took his lips in a kiss that was scarcely more than a whisper of breath across Greg’s skin.  With the taste of acceptance in his mouth, Mycroft nestled closer and took a second kiss, this one firmer and longer than the first, but so utterly sweet that Greg’s wanted to fall into sweetness and never climb back out.

      “Gregory… I have longed for this.  Dreamed of it.  Held the wish for it deeply in my heart.”

The new kiss that began quickly escalated in heat until the two men were pressed so closely together that it was hard to tell where the line between the two men was drawn and hands were eagerly exploring the body their respective imaginations had placed at the center of countless fantasies.  If it wasn’t for the need for pesky oxygen, the kiss might have lasted until dawn…

      “This is what I’ve wanted, too, Mycroft.  I started to wonder when I got here if, maybe, it was possible, but I was so scared to fuck everything up by saying something.”

      “As did I.  Apparently, we are well matched in that, amongst other things.”

Running his fingers along Greg’s cheek, Mycroft knew his prayers tonight would be far, far longer than usual.  He had so many things for which to give thanks and so much guidance and benevolence to beseech.  In his hands had been placed a jewel brighter than the stars in the sky and more precious than any diamond ever dug from the Earth.  And he had no real idea how to hold fast to it and keep it with him from now until those stars dimmed and all the diamonds in existence were scattered and lost in the vastness of space.

But that is precisely what he wanted and with every fiber of his being.

      “I’d say we’re well matched!  We always were…”

      “True.  Shall we now, on this majestic night, continue our walk?”

      “Oh, I’d like nothing better.  Might I hold your hand, kind sir?  I know it is most impetuous and brazen of me, but it is a boon for which I would be deeply grateful.”

Snorting out a laugh, both at Greg’s words and the bow he made after saying them, Mycroft gave a grand performance of pondering the request, then huffed an ‘oh, if you must’ breath and turned so that he faced the original direction of their stroll and positioned his arm so that Greg could easily slip his hand over to join theirs together.

      “On we go, Mycroft?”

      “On we go, my dear.”

      “Oh… oh, I like that.”

      “Good, for I very much like saying it.”

Feeling like they were sixteen again, both men smiled gleefully and started once more along the path that had brought them to this point.  Frankly, for the moment, neither cared where it would lead or how many twists and turns they’d find, because they were on it together and no desire to ever change that fact.

      “Mrs. Hudson is going to be insufferably happy, I suspect.  She’s been worried about you being so alone.”

      “That she has; long has she harbored an unwavering hope for something in my life besides my work.”

      “Smart woman.  Well, I’ll do my best to satisfy on that score.”

      “And, also, for the roof.”

      “What?”

      “I noticed a section of the roof that appears somewhat in need of repair.”

      “Oh my god… I am _not_ a builder!”

      “But you have such a stellar skill set for matters like that.”

      “My only skill set is robbing people blind!”

      “How you acquire the materials for the job is between you and the Lord.”

      “Look at you smile… I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you’re lucky, love, that smug’s a good look for you.”

      “If one has it, as they say, one should flaunt it.”

Greg rolled his eyes, then used their clasped hands to pull Mycroft in for another kiss while they walked.  And, happily, Mycroft didn’t have a problem flaunting the men in his life, so they wouldn’t have to worry about secrecy and keeping their good fortune to themselves.

Of course, flaunting their happiness with Sherlock, John and Anderson was another matter altogether.  The miserable bastards… they’d be braying with laughter so loudly you could hear it from Mars.  Well, not Sherlock, most likely.  He’d be shrieking like a nervous spinster who’d seen a mouse, but that’d be heard on Mars, too, so maybe the in-stereo serenade would keep the aliens at bay.  Right now, the thought of alien abduction seemed like a very bad idea… unless the aliens had a tidy cabin for two in their spaceship.  A tidy cabin with a truly massive bed…


	14. Chapter 14

      “Oh yes… this is exactly what I needed.”

Sherlock wasn’t certain if John was referring to his book, his prone position on the sofa, the whisky in his glass or some hallucination in his mind, but if John was happy, then he wouldn’t question it.  A happy John was… good.  He, himself, had precious little idea how to actively accomplish it, but he had a drawer in his mental filing system devoted to examples where John appeared or plainly stated he was happy and they served as examples he could follow, when necessary.

      “A lungful of sanctimonious and tallow-scented air?”

      “No, you prat.  Relaxing.  Not a care in the world beyond getting up to refill my whisky.  A chance to simply… be.  Haven’t been able to do that in what seems a lifetime.”

      “Why not?  It is not as if you are overwhelmed with social or professional obligations.”

Another drawer in his mental filing system was for examples where his words or actions unintentionally upset John.  This example was handily stamped with a priority status and duly filed away to contemplate in more depth.

      “Yeah… and that’s part of the problem, sometimes.  Friends, work… they can clear the mind because there are specific goals and purposes.  You’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing and not simply fretting because there’s nothing else filling that expanse of time.  Or that you couldn’t fill that space even if you wanted to.”

      “Are you still worrying about money, John?”

As if that was a real question, because John _always_ worried about money, but Sherlock had learned that asking about something, even if he already knew the answer, often drew John out on other things.

      “I always worry about money!  Unlike you, I don’t like the idea of living rough.”

      “Like is a word I would debate, however, I would have suspected that was a fair description of your time in the military.”

John started to argue, then gave it some thought and decided Sherlock had something of a point.

      “That… ok, there’s actually a touch of truth to that, because there were more than a few times where we did something very much like that, but only in terms of living in tents or where we could find shelter at the time.  We still had access to food, clean water, survival equipment and all sorts of other things that made the situation, which was short-term to begin with, manageable.  It’s very different when you have no idea if you’ll have food that day or even a tent over your head when you go to sleep at night.”

      “Are you going to petition again to have your medical credentials restored?”

      “Not… not right now.”

Not an answer that pleased Sherlock in the slightest, because it was the same one he got every time he asked that question.

      “Then we can, if you desire, start exploring other career options for you.”

      “I like being a doctor, Sherlock.”

      “Irrelevant.”

      “Highly relevant.”

      “No, for, at present, you cannot function legally in that capacity.  Therefore, you must ignore your ‘liking’ and focus on the more practical issue of finding alternate employment until your license to practice is restored.”

      “And I will.  Just not right at the moment.  Also, for the record, this conversation is undoing all of my relaxation up to this point.”

A statement that made Sherlock pout thunderously, both for the abrupt end to their conversation and for the fact that John’s nice evening had been compromised.  Even _he_ wasn’t sufficiently oblivious to miss that John harbored an ever-simmering measure of anxiety… coupled with something far darker… and it was not a kind act to destroy one of the few occasions when that weight was lifted from his shoulders.  However, both the pout and the reason for it was very clear to Mycroft who was quietly and secretly observing the couple while Greg poured their own drinks to celebrate, their newly-christened romantic status.

      “I… I am sorry, John.  I had hoped to be helpful.”

Which was why John’s annoyance hadn’t boiled over into anything involving punches and furniture breakage.  Sherlock _was_ trying to be helpful, he was simply balls with the methodology, at times.

      “I know, Sherlock, and I do appreciate it.  And, I _also_ know I’m not being what one might call motivated about see my situation changed.”

Giving Mycroft some ideas for further conversation tomorrow.  Or the next day and for as many days, weeks, months as John required.

      “What assistance I can provide, John, I will… I simply… I do not always know _what_ to do that would be meaningful or successful.”

Mycroft made very specific motions to Greg, who had returned with two glasses of port, so they were now both standing silently outside the sitting room where they could not be seen by the subjects of their surveillance.

      “To be truthful, I don’t always know either.  I _usually_ don’t know, is more the case.  Seeing that you want to try, even if it’s in a vague and hard-to-decipher way, means a lot to me.  It says very clearly that you care and… that’s been a lifeline for me.  Sometimes, though… I don’t always know how to say what’s on my mind and making the attempt to articulate something I don’t have words for just makes me angry.  It’s not your fault, not in the least, even though it might seem that way.  I just feel… like there’s a tremendous pressure inside of me.  I know you’re trying to help, but I can’t help you with the helping, so the pressure just grows and there seems to be no way to release it besides getting angry and saying or doing something I’ll regret later on, so… I suppose I just shut down and consider it damage control.”

Sherlock studied John, who was pointedly not meeting his eye and nodded when he felt he had processed what he could of John’s words.

      “Is that a situation where a knowing look and/or holding your hand is the appropriate response?”

The very soft gasp was inaudible to Sherlock’s and John’s ears, but Mycroft earned his own held hand by the man who was profoundly amused by the vicar’s glee at Sherlock’s rather awkward, yet heartfelt, attempts to be a loving partner.  A glee that was matched by John, who had been feeling fairly useless in trying to talk about what he, himself, didn’t have the words for, but Sherlock’s uncanny ability to pull together even the most gossamer of threads had won out in the end. 

      “Absolutely!  That’s very perceptive of you, Sherlock.”

Mycroft didn’t need to see his brother beaming widely to know it was happening and sent a small thank you heavenward that John had crossed his brother’s path.  Sherlock had a good heart, it was just so deeply buried and hidden behind fortifications that few were able to know the goodness it contained.  John was clearly one of those privileged few.

      “Of course.  I am a genius, after all.”

      “Oh, no doubt.”

The in-stereo laughter signaled an appropriate time for Mycroft and Greg to intrude on the cozy moment and a small throat clearing preceded the vicar’s slow appearance in the sitting room door to smile at the current occupants.

      “It appears that you are both enjoying yourselves.”

      “Ugh, Bloatcroft has returned and… yes, with his little dog, too.”

Said as Greg took his own steps into the room, which made the shockingly obscene gesture he gave to Sherlock easy for the younger man to view in full detail.

      “This dog is very good at taking large chunks out of skinny, useless arses, Sherlock, so you might want to start wearing pants made of iron.”

      “Since my arse is not useless, Lestrade, your statement is meaningless.  Now, begone so John can relax.”

      “You’re here, so that’s not possible, miserable bastard that you are.  Actually…”

Throwing himself into one of the room’s vacant chairs, Greg made a highly-dramatic show of taking a long sip of his port.

      “Love, why don’t you have a seat on my lap and we can double our effectiveness as relaxation-ruiners.”

John and Mycroft both stared at Greg with widened eyes, and Sherlock let out a piercing ‘WHAT!’ so loud that it had Mrs. Hudson running into the sitting room to find out who was holding her guests at gunpoint.  To Greg’s way of thinking, this was all a tremendous success as he’d decided on the long, exquisite meander with his Mycroft, that the ‘ripping off the plaster’ technique for revealing their new status was probably best for all concerned, despite the burst eardrums.

      “Explain yourself, Lestrade!”

Taking another long sip of port before bothering even spare Sherlock a glance, Greg first gave Mycroft a tender smile for reassurance, then added a touch of wickedness to the smile before turning it towards Sherlock to introduce the news.

      “Thought you were a genius?  Well, since your brain’s gone off on holiday, I’ll put this in simple terms you can understand.  Mycroft and I… well, we decided to admit to a lot of things while were walking and it’s safe to say that we understand each other a lot better now.”

      “That is not simple!  What… none of that could remotely be called simple, you gibbering buffoon!”

Sherlock’s agitation was breathtaking to behold and Mycroft took a moment to savor his brother’s aggravation before stepping in with clarification.

      “Gregory and I have admitted to our feelings for each other, brother dear, which are both deep and enduring.”

      “John!  I may… I may vomit.”

      “Finish your whisky and use the glass to hold what comes up.  Hate to see Mrs. Hudson’s lovely rugs soiled by your stomach contents.”

Not that Mrs. Hudson cared at the moment, so quickly was she wrapping her arms around Mycroft to give him a hug that knocked the wind out of his lungs.

      “Oh, I’ve hoped that this day would come and it finally has!  Of course, I also hoped you’d meet a nice, respectable man, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

Looking over his housekeeper’s head at the dastardly, despicable man for whom his heart yearned, Mycroft rolled his eyes at Greg’s proud smile, vowing to remind the criminal that encouraging Mrs. Hudson was done purely at one’s peril.

      “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.  Your support, as always, is appreciated.”

      “I’ll throw in my congratulations, too, Mycroft.  Actually, reverse that.  Greg, you get my congratulations, since Mycroft _is_ a good and respectable man, whereas you’re a tosspot, so he’s not won much of a prize there.”

      “Thanks, John, you rat-faced grouse fucker.”

      “Gregory!  Such language…”

      “Sorry, love… cat-faced grouse fucker.”

Mycroft’s rolled eyes and pained expression made Mrs. Hudson giggle and give him a final squeeze before moving to give the scoundrel of the family one of his own.  Definitely not the sort she’d have chosen from the man-market for her Mr. Holmes, but he was the _right_ choice, nonetheless.  His nooks and crannies slotted in with her vicar’s more completely than any she might have imagined and he drew some life and fire out of the placid and polite man.  She’d not seen Mr. Holmes smile so widely, laugh so easily and fully or anger as hotly in all the time she’d known him.  No question with all the heightened emotion he was showing, the randiness was going to rage like an out-of-control grease fire.  And wasn’t that a wonderful, wonderful thing…

      “John, I am near to death and refuse to die in here with Mycroft lecturing my corpse on why dying is rude to the other people in the room.  We are leaving.”

John closed his book, sighed and doffed his imaginary cap to Mycroft, Greg and Mrs. Hudson to follow Sherlock out for what he very much expected to be a highly-camouflaged conversation about this change in his brother’s life.  A new lover wasn’t much of a ripple in the pond, but one he’d known his whole life and, it seemed, had been his very closest friend, was a tidal wave and Sherlock was going to need time to process that.  That sort of relationship either meant a life-long love or an explosion that ripped both men to pieces, and… well, it was very hard to know what Sherlock would think, given Mycroft was a brother he never mentioned and openly treated like a horrible brat.  But, that was what long conversations were for, even if most of it didn’t seem to be about the conversation’s actual topic.

Maybe a nice walk would help… seemed to do wonders for Mycroft and Greg and who didn’t enjoy a quiet walk on a beautiful night?  Well, Sherlock, probably, but fuck that.  John Watson was going to enjoy it enough for both of them.  Wonder if Mycroft had a flask lying about for a little portable whisky, though, just in case…

__________

Neither Greg nor Mycroft would admit that a small part of their minds wasn’t convinced they hadn’t fallen into some beautiful dream that would make them curse a blue streak when the woke and found themselves still with unspoken feelings and a friendship that had never taken a momentous step forward.  The uncertainty was understandable, though, because the beautiful dream was _indescribably_ beautiful and that wasn’t something happened to real people.  People you read about in books stumbled into this sort of thing every other day, but not actual people who lived and breathed and were riddled with quirks and flaws and countless other things that all those novelists glossed over or made into something dashing, rather than dreary or irritating.

      “I am well and truly beaten, Mycroft.  My brain had zero ability to craft one of my typically chaotic strategies that you hate because they’re too daft for any rational person to put into practice.  You are tonight’s backgammon champion.”

      “Hurrah!  I shall wear my laurels proudly.  However, yes, I did notice your gameplay was along more standard models that did, in fact, confuse me for the first half of our match for I felt certain you were lulling me into complacency, preparing to spring a mighty trap when I was least expecting the pounce.”

      “Why didn’t I think of that!  Oh yeah, my zero-ability brain.”

      “I suspect you are somewhat fatigued, my dear.”

      “I… oddly, I am.  I’m waking much earlier than usual and all this walking we’re doing, gardening… Fuck me, I’ve become an old man, haven’t I?”

      “Verily, I fear it is so.  However, I shall care for you in your recently-found dotage as diligently as you require for your comfort and well-being.”

      “Meaning you’ll leave me to the whims of Mrs. Hudson and turn a blind eye when she puts a shawl around my shoulders and tosses me outside to sit on a cold bench, alone and lonely.”

      “You genuinely believe she would award you a shawl?”

      “Shit!  Told you my brain wasn’t working properly.  She’d toss me out in my pants and I’d have to hope there was a compassionate hedgehog or rabbit nearby to come huddle with me for warmth.”

      “Let us hope they might also bring you food for I fear you would receive not even a crumb from our larders.”

      “What a drag it is getting old.”

      “That… that is from a song, is it not?”

      “I knew all that music I tortured you with would be useful someday!”

      “The agony… the sheer, nerve-fraying agony…”

Though Gregory’s dancing to that music… wild, free and utterly feral… was breathtaking to behold.

      “But, I did listen to your classical stuff, too, so we each got some of what we wanted.  Remember that shit radio we had?  That was one of our greatest accomplishments.”

      “Most expert bargaining, if I do say so myself.”

      “Between your negotiating skills and my overwhelming charm, that poor shopkeeper was lucky they weren’t paying _us_ to take that tatty thing away.”

      “I believe he felt somewhat sorry for two young waifs with their few pence clutched tightly in their hands, hopeful that a second-hand portable radio was, by some miracle, within their reach.”

Though keeping it out of Gregory’s more nefarious reach had been somewhat of a challenge, for his sticky-fingered friend was not of a mind that a purchased item was morally different than one obtained through more unscrupulous means.

      “We did a very good job with the pathetic young-waif eyes, too.”

      “We could instruct a course in it, along with the accompanying quivering voice and apparent innocence about the price of electronic goods.”

      “I’m surprised you mucked in, actually, what with all of that being shady as fuck.”

One chooses one’s battles, my dear, and between having you steal it and finagling a reduced purchase price, it was clear which battle would gain my personal sword and shield.

      “The radio had been in the shop window for no small period of time, earning nothing while it sat unpurchased.  Also… I did so long to hear the music I adored.”

Which put an idea in Greg’s mind that wasn’t actually filthy or foolish, something of a unique occurrence.

      “Got any of that in here?”

      “I do, actually.  A respectable collection of pieces I prefer and a player to give them life.”

      “Put one on, then.  Something… not with shrieking women with horns on their heads or cannons.”

      “I cannot think of a single piece of classical music or opera that boasts women wearing cannons as headgear.”

      “Ugghhh… get to work, you failed comedian.”

Mycroft smirked, found a suitable recording, and started it playing, adjusting the volume so as not to disturb Mrs. Hudson or his brother and John, should they have returned from their walk.

      “Yeah, that’s a good one.  Ok, let’s go.”

      “Go?  Where?”

Now it was Greg’s turn to smirk and he stood to hold out his arms, then wave them a bit to emphasize what he was asking Mycroft to do.  Which took a surprisingly long time as the vicar was genuinely surprised by the offer.

      “Oh…”

      “May I have this dance, Mycroft?”

      “I… You may.”

Slipping into Greg’s arms, Mycroft sighed in delight at how easily his whole body relaxed into the embrace.  The rightness of the feeling was beyond his poor attempts at description and the gentle swaying of their bodies as they moved slowly through the room, pressed closely together, was a profoundly sensual experience.

      “See, I don’t always dance like I’m being electrocuted.”

      “It is truly a marvel of self-control you are demonstrating.  I can feel the energy in your frame desperate to burst forth in a whirling froth of physical gyrations.”

      “Frothy isn’t the worst way my dancing has been described.  I have to admit, though… this non-frothy dancing is nice.”

      “That it is.”

      “Be nicer if you were kissing me, though.”

      “Oh, do let me remedy that.”

Taking Greg’s lips in a kiss stirred something inside Mycroft that was as indefinable as it was powerful.  Rather like finding water when you were terribly thirsty, it was hard to define the source of the pleasure when you took your first sip.  Some was physical, but some was a giddiness that was purely emotional, bordering on spiritual.  It satisfied on so many levels that the synergistic effect was nearly overwhelming.  Truly, it was the same with his Gregory.  He had thirsted for this very thing for so long, a lifetime, really, that finding it was just as joy-inducing as water to someone lost in the desert.

To hold Gregory’s body in his arms, taste the man’s passion on his lips, enjoy the sensation of the growing bulge in Gregory’s trousers that was more than a match for his own…

      “Mycroft… we didn’t talk about this, but…”

Using that bulge to best advantage, Greg pressed harder into Mycroft’s stiffening erection and drank Mycroft’s needy moan like fine wine.

      “I do desire you, Gregory.  Beyond fantasy, in the flesh, and with all the passion my soul and body possess.”

      “Then let’s celebrate that passion, what say?  Your bedroom or mine?”

      “Mine has a larger bed.”

      “That’s true.  Yours it is, then.  The things I want to do with you, love… I’m…”

      “Oops!  You two having a romantic moment?”

It was an _amusing_ moment for Mrs. Hudson, watching the two men start to leap apart, remembering the erections issue and press even closer together, angling their hips so as to keep their manly wares from her observant eyes.

      “Yes, we are, Mrs. Hudson, so if you will excuse us…”

      “I’d like to, Mr. Holmes, but Doreen Winslow just phoned and her mum had a fall.  Won’t let them take her to hospital, because Diana Winslow is stubborn old bird, and Doreen hopes you’ll be able to talk some sense into her.  At least enough to let Doctor Beecham give her an examination.”

      “Oh dear… yes, yes, of course I’ll go.  Please ring Doreen and tell her I will be there as soon as I can, and to see if Doctor Beecham will come out to their home.  I suspect the elderly Mrs. Winslow will not agree to a hospital trip, if required, unless he approves it, but it shall be a herculean task to convince her to even let him ask a few basic questions.”

      “Love, why don’t you bring John?  We can probably find him quickly enough.”

Mycroft stepped out of Greg’s arms and smiled ruefully.

      “For another, I _would_ consider that, since Roger Beecham hates little more than being called away from his home once the sun sets, however, the poor dear is quite elderly and has little trust for anyone she has not known for a decade, at minimum.”

      “That leaves you out, then, doesn’t it?”

      “I receive divine dispensation.”

      “Oh, well done you.  Want me to come?”

      “There is no need to disrupt both our evenings, my dear, but I thank you for the offer.”

      “Ok, then… wait.  You don’t have a car.”

      “True, no motorized vehicle has appeared in my possession today.”

      “Bastard.  I mean, it’s black as pitch out there and how are you going wherever you’re going?”

      “My bicycle.”

      “Wrong.”

      “Right.”

      “There’s no fucking headlamp on your bicycle!  You’ll pedal into a tree or something!”

Mycroft grinned and gave Greg a kiss on his cheek for being exactly the person he always remembered.  Protective, but often ignoring pesky details that muddied his narrative.

      “I have avoided pedaling into trees for a very long time and I doubt, with the moon as bright as it is tonight, that today shall bring my successful streak to a tragic end.”

      “Tomorrow, I am putting a headlamp on that thing or getting you one of those you wear on your head like a miner and no argument from you about wearing it.”

      “I am certain whichever shopkeeper stocks such things will be most pleased by your business.  Now, I must go.  I have no idea when I shall return, Gregory…”

The remorse in Mycroft’s eyes was something Greg understood as their erections were already chiding them for lack of attention, but there was no way in this world he’d even suggest taking the edge off before Mycroft left for his work.  Mycroft took his commitments as seriously today as he did when he was younger and even suggesting he change that would _not_ lead to good things between them.

      “You go and help, no matter how long it takes.”

With a final kiss that lingered a few precious seconds on Greg’s lips, Mycroft darted out of the study to find his jacket and set his bicycle on the road.  It was only a few miles, so it wouldn’t take very long, but he would pay special attention for evil-minded trees that might wish to leap into his path.  Truly he would not hear the end of it from Gregory if this night, of all nights, he was awarded a broken leg by the foul actions of vengeful vegetation.

      “That happen often?  Mycroft getting called out at night, I mean?”

Mrs. Hudson nodded and was glad that _she_ wouldn’t be the one tonight waiting up for the vicar to return so he could have a warm cup of tea and a friendly ear to listen to whatever troubles he’d been tasked to ease.

      “More often than anyone would like, but he’s never once had me ring them up and say he couldn’t come.  Even when the poor man’s been sick, he’s dragged himself out to be what help he can to the person in need.  Not one to shirk his duties, no matter… how _urge_ ntly he might want to stay at home.  In bed.”

      “You can leave now.”

      “Why!  You need the company.”

      “Go bake a cake.”

      “No.  But remember we’ve still got a bit left from dinner when Mr. Holmes is back at home.”

      “Why would… oh.  Yeah, bite of cake, maybe a spot of tea?”

      “There’s that brain that hides itself behind the thickest part of your skull most of the day.”

      “Thanks.  But, good idea.  He’ll probably want to relax after he’s done, won’t he?”

      “Usually does.  Of course, depending… he might just want to take to bed.  I trust you can take care of that, too?”

      “Better than I can make a cup of tea that meets Mycroft’s standards.”

      “Then my work here is done.  I’ll be reading in my room if you need anything.  Oh, and watch Sherlock and his Doctor Watson don’t track dirt into the house after their walk.  Sherlock doesn’t pay attention to things like roads and paths and trundles off into goodness-knows-what that he brings back onto my rugs whenever he has the chance.”

      “I’ll guard the rugs.”

      “What a dear thing you are.  You’re going to be such a good wife to Mr. Holmes.”

      “I’m not his wife!  Wives don’t fix the fucking roof.”

      “The local builder is a woman.  And a wife.”

      “Really?”

      “Her dad had the business before her and didn’t have any sons, so he said bugger that and trained her instead.”

      “Then she can fix the roof.”

      “Nope.  _You’re_ the wife, _you_ wield the hammer.”

      “Do you use hammers to fix a roof?”

      “Guess you’ll find out.”

__________

Greg had merry rude-gesture exchange with Sherlock and John when they returned interrupted his film but, since it ushered them up to bed and not into the sitting room to _continue_ interrupting his film, he was alright with being out-gestured by the miserable git that was John Watson.  And it ensured for him a quiet house that was perfect for finishing his film, starting a book and nearly falling asleep half way through it when the sound of the kitchen door being opened shook the cobwebs out of his brain.

      “There’s my man of the cloth.  At… oh, fuck o’clock in the morning.  Did things go well?”

Mycroft’s large huff of breath and slow stretch wasn’t as informative as Greg would have hoped, but they put him on alert that relaxation and shaking off the night was up next on his vicar’s agenda.

      “Eventually.  It took a great deal of convincing for our Mrs. Winslow to agree to let the doctor examine her and then another eon of gentle persuasion for her to agree to go to hospital for a few tests and x-rays of her knee and hip, which the doctor, as best as he was able to determine given the rather draconian limits she put on his physical examination, may have suffered some degree of damage.  She decided to retrieve a tablecloth from an upper shelf of her linen closet and fell from the chair she was using to reach the height.  I suspect, though she would not confess it, that she dragged herself to her chair before phoning her daughter to bring a bottle of aspirin and an ice pack.”

      “Shit… that sound horrible.  She’ll be ok, though, right?”

      “I suspect so.  I spoke with Beecham while the family was phoning for an ambulance, and he felt confident there was no more worrying injury.  She certainly remained lucid, and cantankerous, during her examination and the wait for the ambulance to arrive, so I share his confidence that, though she likely suffered a serious injury or injuries, there is little reason to anticipate deeper concerns.  I will phone in the morning to learn what was the outcome of her tests and seek a ride to hospital to visit if she shall be its guest for more than a day or two.”

Rising from his seat, Greg moved towards Mycroft to give him a soft kiss and run a hand along his cheek.

      “You look tired.”

      “I will not lie and claim to be bursting with vigor.”

      “Good, because I’d thump you behind the ear for that.  Want a nibble before sleep or just sleep?”

Wrapping his arms around Greg’s shoulders, Mycroft sighed softly and smiled at how their relationship had changed so radically today, yet was still achingly familiar and built on the foundation of what they had forged from the day they first met.

      “Just sleep, I feel.  I have a full morning ahead of me and the few hours I will see if I meet my bed now will be very helpful in making that morning a productive one.”

      “Sleep it is, then.  Let’s go.”

Nodding slightly and ordering his mind to backtrack the few steps it had taken towards sleep while nestled cozily against Greg’s warm body, Mycroft broke the embrace, stretched one more time and moved towards the stairs, with Greg following after dousing the lights in the house, only to startle Mycroft slightly when he strolled into Mycroft’s bedroom, carrying a pair of pyjamas over his arm.

      “Gregory?”

      “What?”

      “Are you lost?”

      “Nope!  We’d planned for tonight to end here and there’s no reason to change that just because you, and me frankly, are tired and sleeping sounds better than shagging.”

Mycroft’s heart grew three sizes hearing Greg’s words, given they were precisely what a loving partner would say, not someone who had shallower hopes for their relationship.  Not that he had doubted, but it was terribly nice to hear evidence of that now, at the start of their new journey.

      “I… I would greatly appreciate that, my dear.”

Of course that appreciation changed to alarm when he realized that in order to change into pyjamas, nudity would be required and… oh dear.

      “Someone had a thought.”

      “Many, actually.  My brain is a somewhat lively structure.”

      “True.  Want to share your thought?  Any of them will do.  Pick one that seems most relevant.”

You are an impertinent creature, Gregory Lestrade.  A scandalously handsome one, as well, but the original point stands.

      “It is a silly thing, really, but… I am finding the concept of… intimate nudity… rather has a different flavor when one is not actively involved in the more physical forms of intimacy.”

      “What does that even mean?”

      “I… truly I do not know.”

Greg laughed at Mycroft’s embarrassment and stepped forward, tossing his pyjamas on the bed, and held his confused love gently, with a few condescending pats on the back and there-there’s tossed in for good measure.

      “Now I know you’re tired!  Your lively brain is broken!”

      “Perhaps it is.  In any case, if it will serve me sufficiently well to script my sermons each week and remember to wear shoes, I suppose I shall endure.”

      “That’s all a man can hope for.  Now, in this house we wear our pyjamas, I believe was your story, so get those on your back and get your back into bed before you fall over.”

      “An excellent suggestion.”

One kiss was laid on Greg’s forehead before Mycroft took a deep breath and stepped out of his arms and retrieved a fresh pair of his own pyjamas from the dresser, moving quickly to pull his jumper over his head and start on his shirt buttons.

      “Oh… that’s one question answered.”

      “P… pardon, Gregory?”

      “Wondered if you’d be a hairy bloke, what with that little forest you started to sprout before you left for college.”

      “Ah, yes.  Do you…”

      “Like it?”

Greg moved towards Mycroft and leaned over to rub his nose in Mycroft’s chest hair, then let his hands run through the hirsute showing and accompanied that with a highly-pleased hum.  Something, oddly, that quelled Mycroft’s slight unease about being very casually naked, even with someone he hoped to be torridly naked with in the very near future.

      “That’s fucking marvelous.  Still not a speck of color on that skin of yours, though.  But, maybe it’s not the right season for that.  I do clearly recall your spray of summer freckles…”

      “Oh dear heavens… my arms appear as if they have contracted the pox!”

      “Which is why you always tried to hide them under long sleeves.  Keep any sun from touching your arms, shoulders and back.  Didn’t you try and make a little cone for your nose once?”

      “I certainly did not.  What an imagination you have.”

It was decidedly wedge-shaped and in no manner a cone.

      “If that’s your memory, you continue to cherish it fondly.”

      “I shall.”

      “ _I’ll_ cherish the memory of turning a hose on you when you were blazing hot and refused to take off that cover-everything shirt and your nose cone.”

Mycroft laughed merrily at the memory of being chased about behind the grocer’s, where a hose was always at the ready for thirsty boys or, in this case, those who were wilting from a rare period of blistering sunshine and scorching temperatures turning London into a furnace.

      “I will freely admit that the cooling effect was both pronounced and most welcome.”

      “I promise you that if we meet with a sweltering day, I will sit there with the hose, watering you like a houseplant whenever you need it.”

      “You have always been my stalwart protector, Gregory.”

      “Yeah, and that’s not changing.  Someone has to look after you and there’s nobody better at that than me.”

Said with a pugnacious tone and upward tilt to his chin that Mycroft remembered very, very well and clung to now as tightly as he did then.  His Gregory had always been the dragon between him and the world and, though he had not precisely needed the dragon in his adult years, it was no small blessing to have him back in his proper place, breathing fire and looking positively valiant while doing it.

      “No, no there is not.”

Greg’s smug and sexy grin did highly pleasant things to Mycroft’s heartrate, but his enormous yawn kept his libido from leaping in to take advantage of the raised metabolism.

      “Bed, you ridiculous vicar!”

One firm swat was given to Mycroft’s bum after Greg spun him around and pulled Mycroft close, using his hands to unfasten Mycroft’s trousers and giving them a push to the floor, though he was more careful about removing Mycroft’s pants so nothing he very much wanted to make friends with tomorrow night got tangled in the fabric.  Of course, this put Mycroft’s body fully on display and Greg felt the air knocked out of his lungs seeing how luscious was the man whose beauty was something he’d often imagined, but certainly not this well.  His Mycroft was _gorgeous_ …

      “Gregory?”

      “What?”

      “You are… gaping.”

      “Oh!  Sorry… fuck me, Mycroft… you are…”

The long, needy whine drew a shy, pleased smile to Mycroft’s lips and he strained to remember a time any other man had responded so viscerally to his body, but could not think of a single example.  And his Gregory’s reaction _was_ real… so very, very real…

      “I am happy you approve.”

      “Approve?  I’m the luckiest man in the fucking world!  Getting to lay eyes on all that loveliness, sleep next to it… I always suspected you’d be an elegant man.  Graceful, fine… just you standing there, it’s like I’m seeing a statue in a museum or an art photo of one of those poised and sophisticated models.”

      “That… dear me, Gregory.  I am… such heady words…”

      “Just honest ones.  I… wait a second…”

About one second was all it took for Greg to throw his clothes off like they were on fire or dipped in acid and Mycroft scarcely had time to recover from the shock of seeing what would forever be his exemplar of male perfection before Greg had hopped into Mycroft’s bed and patted the space next to him.

      “Just this once, do you think we can set aside the pyjama rule and… I just want to feel your body against mine, love.  Skin to skin, nothing between us but air and, preferably, not much of that.  Can we?”

Mycroft stared a moment at Greg’s nude, reclining body and decided that if a scrap of pyjama fabric tried to cover that magnificence, he’d put a match to it and send straight it to the hell of accursed textiles.

      “I believe that can be arranged.”

Gulping slightly as he approached the bed housing the human incarnation of the most seductive of incubi, Mycroft slowly laid his body down next to Greg and smirked as Greg patted his chest for him to rest his head, which Mycroft obliged, curling languidly to put as much of his skin as possible in contact with Greg’s.  The resulting sensation drew out his own soft, needy whine… except…

Looking up, Mycroft met Greg’s own confused, dissatisfied eyes and the in-unison repositioning occurred so quickly that neither man actually had conscious memory of rearranging themselves so they were under the blankets and it was Greg’s head on Mycroft’s chest and Mycroft’s body being entwined in strong, eager limbs as Greg wrapped around his greatest sexual fantasy and felt every longing in his body quiet to a murmur because they had finally found what they’d been looking for all his life.

      “My dear Gregory… this is… no sin imaginable could be this pleasurable.”

      “Normally, I’m a staunch advocate of the pleasures of various of the sins, but I have to admit that you’re absolutely and complete correct.”

Running a hand across Mycroft’s soft belly, Greg took his own moment to page through his memories, trying to find one where he was this content lying next to a person, especially when nothing had come before to leave him spent and boneless.  And he had nothing.  His brain couldn’t toss out a single instance where he cared enough to take pleasure in simply sharing a bed and the warmth of the person sharing it with him.  Sex was great, sex with Mycroft would be mind-blowing, but this… _this_ was something he wouldn’t trade for all the sex in the world.  Of course, now that he’d get this _and_ all the sex that went along with it, Greg Lestrade was the richest man on Earth, in addition to being the luckiest…

      “How early do you have to be awake tomorrow, love?”

      “I have a meeting to discuss a new youth initiative at eight and Mrs. Hudson will not let me leave the vicarage if I am not properly fed and groomed according to her exacting standards.”

      “So, seven is the winning number.”

      “That was my thought.”

      “Which leaves you… three hours!  Want me to get one of those cartoon clown hammers to hit you with so you’re knocked right out and off to a dreamless sleep in five seconds?”

      “I believe we may dispense with the animated solutions at this time, for I suspect these scant hours shall be profoundly restful ones with you here to protect me from foul nightmares and Sherlock.”

      “Both will get bounced right out on their fucking ears.”

      “Excellent.  Then, shall I bid you goodnight, my dear?”

      “You shall, after one last kiss.”

      “But, of course!  The sanctity of the goodnight kiss shall ever remain inviolate in this household.”

Greg tilted his head upwards to receive his charmingly-traditional peck on the lips, then added a few pecks on Mycroft’s hairy chest for good measure.

      “Alright then, the sanctity is satisfied and tomorrow I get a good morning kiss, too, which is just as sacred, in case you didn’t know.”

Mycroft laughed and gave Greg’s shoulders a squeeze before letting his mind settle into the proper mode for sleeping.  Which, surprisingly, would come quickly.  A naked Gregory gracing his bed, tonight, was providing an unimaginable domestic comfort that would swiftly lull him into a peaceful sleep.  Tomorrow night… the situation would be most different.

Or perhaps not.  As long as Gregory was here, with him, what they shared, no matter how simple, was enough.  The Lord had blessed him with lust for Gregory’s body and love for the heart, mind and soul that body housed.  So few in this world were blessed this richly and he was unutterably thankful to be one of those few.

Now, the question was how to keep this great gift here, safe and content.  It was, perhaps, presumptuous to pray for guidance, given what he had already received in boons and graces, but pray he would, for the time would come when London would beckon his Gregory and, when that time came, choices would have to be made.  Choices which would define each of their lives for all the years they had remaining…


	15. Chapter 15

It surprised neither of the men that, despite their aching tiredness, they both woke before Mycroft’s 7:00 am deadline.  It was as if their minds, and bodies, were loath to miss even a moment of conscious enjoyment of the other’s warm form lying next to them in the modest bed.

      “Good morning, love.  You’ve got another half-hour before you wanted to roll out of this cozy bed, so why don’t you use that time for a bit more sleep?”

      “I suspect it would not be forthcoming, I’m afraid.  However, there is no reason you could not take more rest.”

Though Mycroft knew his suggestion would fall on deaf ears.  Greg was perfectly alert and once his Gregory was fully awake, no power on Earth could settle him back to sleep.  Many instances of spending nights at each other’s flats when they were small was proof of that.

      “Nah, I’m awake.  Besides, maybe I’d prefer to lay here and savor what I’ve got laying here with me.”

Curling snugly against his bedmate, Greg rubbed his cheek against Mycroft’s hairy chest and sighed contentedly.  He’d slept with a _lot_ of people and hadn’t fit as comfortably against any of them as he did with the one now in his arms.  Maybe he was imagining things but fuck it if he was.  Who cared the cause when something felt this wonderful?

      “I admit _is_ a rather appealing option...”

Mycroft planted a soft kiss on the top of Greg’s head and took a moment to enjoy the unique scent of his partner’s hair.  What a grand thing it was to wake with someone who you _did_ want to continue to lie with, letting the world continue to spin and time to pass without your notice because your attention was completely focused on the blissful cocoon you had created.

      “… especially given the rather full day that lies ahead, including the chat I hope to have with John.  And you, Gregory?  What trials and tribulations face you today?”

      “I’ll still do my best to bend Sherlock’s ear, then… lots of very important things.”

      “Such as?”

      “They’re too important to mention.”

      “Gregory…”

      “If I say I don’t know you’ll find things for me to do and I don’t want to build a wall or clean the chimney today.  Digging soot out of my bum all night is not where I want this lovely morning to lead.”

      “Were you planning to be nude when de-sooting the chimney?”

      “You never know.  I’m not a bashful person and it’d save Mrs. Hudson having a punishing time doing the laundry.”

      “Lovely.  I suppose I should prepare to donate my afternoon to the local reporter for a story about a naked man scampering about the vicarage roof.”

      “Will there be a photographer?  That might bolster my enthusiasm for a bit of chimney scrubbing. Not a person in London would recognize me covered head to toe in soot, no matter how wildly I waggled my willie.”

      “Oh dear, I have created a monster.”

      “Think my cock’s a monster, do you?  I admit it’s monstrously fantastic, that’s for certain.

Mycroft’s laughter gave Greg a pleasant jostle, especially against the aforementioned monster and he gave it a little extra rub against Mycroft’s thigh for good measure.

      “You seem most… robust… this morning, my dear Gregory.”

      “It’s the company.  Very stimulating.”

      “Ever a thing to enjoy when one finds proper companionship.”

      “Very true, very true.  Even better when one finds proper companionship that’s naked and has a healthy appreciation of the naughty things people do when naked, in bed and hard as a piece of steel.”

      “Yes, that does add a particular piquancy to the ambience.”

      “You and that mouth of yours.  Always admired what you could do with your mouth when you put your mind to it.”

The dark chuckle that flowed into Greg’s ears was the sexiest sound those ears had ever heard and he moved his hips slightly to show his approval of the direction the morning seemed to be taking.

      “I am gratified my oral talents please you.”

      “Well… in fairness, all I can say is that the ones I’ve experienced please me.  Can’t judge the ones I haven’t experienced, now can I?”

      “A valid point.  Perhaps another talent should be added to your evaluation portfolio.”

      “Perhaps it should.  Let me guess, though – not now.”

Mycroft ran a hand up and down Greg’s back and smiled at the truth of the statement, but not for a reason his partner might suppose.

      “Frankly, I am enjoying what we are doing currently too greatly to desire a change, no matter how appropriately the world ‘desire’ is used to describe said change.  Is that strange, do you think?”

      “Nope, because I sort of feel that way too, actually.  I can’t remember a time when I’ve been so bloody comfortable in bed, with or without someone sharing it.  I do love a long lie-in, mind you, but it’s… normally, when there’s someone with me, I’m either hoping for a bit more fun before making a run out the door or just making a run out the door after I get my trousers buttoned.  The very last thing I want to do right now is run out the door.”

Snuggling closer to emphasize his point, Greg took his own survey of Mycroft’s morning scent and smiled at the rich spiciness that filled his nose.  As cool and calm as his Mycroft was, his skin told another story.  It was odd to think of a vicar as a _man_ , one with spicy skin and dark chuckles and chest hair and a morning hard-on of his own, but his Mycroft had all of that and what a delightful package it made.

      “And I could not be happier for it.  I… I have dreamt of this for so long, Gregory, never once believing it was a dream that would ever come true.”

      “Well, it has, so make certain to take full advantage of it.”

      “I shall.  Is…”

      “Yeah?”

      “No, it has slipped my mind.”

      “Liar, nothing slips your mind.  Remember who you’re talking to before you try and lie like that.”

      “Villain.”

      “Yeah, and one who knows when you’re fucking lying.  The fact that you’re fucking lying tells me, too, that it’s something important, so start talking.”

      “It is… this is not an appropriate time, I feel.”

      “Fuck that.  Talk.”

Greg un-snuggled a bit and glared up at Mycroft, who scowled, but decided that if the cat had made its way half out of the bag, the back half had no choice but to follow.

      “Very well.  I… I was simply pondering how long the opportunity to take advantage of this shall be awarded to me.”

      “I… oh.”

      “As I said, not the topic of conversation for this morning.”

      “If it’s in your head, then yes it is.  I hadn’t thought about it, really, but… yeah, my life is in London.”

      “Though it is not a life worthy of you.”

      “I pay my rent and eat, so it’s _very_ worthy, thank you very much.”

      “Something that could be accomplished in a diverse assortment of ways besides engaging in criminal pursuits.”

      “Not with the same money.  I don’t have a Uni background to open doors for me, you know.”

      “You could still find well-paying, honest work, Gregory.”

      “I don’t want to work in a shop.”

      “That is not the only career in existence besides nefariousness.”

      “Fine.  I don’t want to empty rubbish bins, either.”

      “You are being purposefully churlish.  An intelligent, perceptive, ambitious man such as yourself has a wide path ahead of him should he choose to walk it.”

      “Ok… let’s make this even more fun.  In London, I may, _may_ , have options.  What about here? Not much in your quaint little village for someone like me, now is there?”

      “There… I… I am certain something is available to… Gregory.  Are we now having a discussion about… cohabitating?”

      “Ummm… that’s probably…”

Damn his churlishness!  This was not the direction he wanted to go in.  It didn’t even exist on his compass!  Though… he couldn’t deny the thought of living with Mycroft, wherever that might be, sounded like the best fucking thing this world could offer.

      “… it’s very, very, very too soon for a talk like that, isn’t it?”

      “It… we _will_ have to examine the issue at some point, I assume.”

      “Yeah, I assume, too.  It’s… it’s a thing.”

      “What is a thing?”

      “The issue.”

      “Issues can be correctly described as things, I presume.”

      “Good.”

      “Gregory?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Would you be offended if I declared this conversation a topic for another day when we have seen you freed from your current troubles and can focus your attention for fully on other… issues?”

      “I would not only _not_ be offended, I’d be thankful that you stepped in when my brain had a spasm.”

      “Then it is settled.  We shall leave alone certain matters for the moment and keep our efforts focused elsewhere.”

      “That’s smart.  But…”

      “Yes?”

      “I… ummm…”

      “Gregory?”

      “I just want you to know that I _want_ to talk about it.  About us, I mean.  Long-term us that’s more than a shag when we have the chance.”

Mycroft looked down as Greg looked up and the gleam in each man’s eyes said they very much liked the sound of long-term, but neither was naive about the hurdles they would have to overcome to make that happen.  However, some worries _were_ best faced another day…

      “As do I.  Now, though, the call of the shower is sounding like a klaxon in my ears and, given I have a private bath…”

      “Someone wants a bit of help getting clean?  I can see that.  Busy many like you shouldn’t waste time washing with two hands when four will do it in half the time.”

      “Your efficiency is utterly beguiling, my dear.”

      “Yeah, it is.”

      “Along with your humility.”

      “Goes without saying.”

__________

After Mrs. Hudson dragged Sherlock and John along to help her with the morning shopping, which included finding some new bulbs for her garden, the planting of the bulbs commenced and continued until Mycroft was free to beg John’s company and medical expertise for a visit to one of his congregation and Greg traded his gardening gloves for something less soil-y, pulling Sherlock up the again- _borrowed_ ladder to start work on the vicarage roof.

      “This is intolerable!  First, I have to become far more closely acquainted with dirt and worms than I ever wished in this life and now, like a common laborer, I am on a roof holding a… tool.”

      “Shit.  I thought _you_ know what it was.”

      “No.”

      “Fine.  I’ll fathom it out at some point, I suppose.  And, we all have to do our part for the household since we’re living off Mycroft’s miniscule purse for the time being.  What he doesn’t have to pay some lad to do, is our payment for food and the like.”

      “As I was forcibly hauled to this soul-crippling no-man’s land, I owe Fatcroft nothing.”

      “Your brother’s not fat, you bastard.  And I know that, without a shadow of a doubt, because you can’t hide fat when you’re completely naked and I had the particular privilege last night to view Mycroft’s nakedness as closely as I wanted.”

      “That your eyes were not seared in their sockets to blackened masses of unidentifiable tissue is scientifically unbelievable.”

      “Fuck you.  In any case, we’re up here earning our keep and Mycroft’s down there earning his.  Everyone doing their bit, as it’s meant to be.”

      “Mrs. Hudson is watching her ridiculous daytime fiction.”

      “Rule Number One – Mrs. Hudson is exempt from all bit-doing except when she so chooses.”

      “Hmmm… you have not known her long, but seem to understand her personal view of the vicarage social order.”

      “That’s because I’m not stupid and I’d like to keep my bollocks attached to my body.  But, while we’re on the subject of earning our keep… I wanted to talk to you about something.”

      “I have no desire to discuss Mycroft, you, you and Mycroft, or any topic that even tangentially touches upon you and/or Mycroft.”

      “Such a kind-hearted person you are.  Anyway, you know how upset Mycroft is about how you’ve been earning money and I know for a fact John’s not happy with it either.  I thought you and me might work to shift your productivity a touch, so you can still keep some cash in your pocket, but in a way that’s not so… problematic.”

      “I have no problem with my wage-earning ventures.”

      “You say that, but I think it’s shit.  Maybe you, personally, don’t, which _is_ shit, but it bothers you that John has a problem with it, and that’s more shit than a man should have to wade through every day.  Let’s make a change to that, what say?”

      “I say the suggestion sounds both boring and unnecessary.”

      “You did good computer work for Anderson tracking that fucker Dimmock’s finances.  There’s good money to be made marketing those skills to the right people.”

      “Boring.”

      “Liar.  You always liked your little puzzles, so I suspect a good challenge, no matter who or what posed it, would pique your interest.  Also, lad with a brain like yours… we deal in a lot of things.  Not all those things are the right quality for what we paid and it’d be nice to have someone who could examine things early on, before final payment was made, and tell us if we need to send money or head-breakers to the people who sold to us.  And that’s only one example!  I can think of a _lot_ of things for you to do, actually.”

      “You are using the terms ‘we’ and ‘us’ very liberally.  I assume you are referring to the various dolts and dimwits with whom you associate.”

      “I wouldn’t use those terms when you’re face to face with them, because your own head will get broken like an egg, but yeah.”

      “Currently, you are not in a position to make that offer, given they believe you a traitor.”

      “True, but that’s going to change and when it does… it’s cleaner work, Sherlock.  Not legal, by any means, but cleaner.  People don’t get hurt, don’t get dead, and I suspect that, somewhere deep inside, that means something to you.”

      “You would be wrong.”

But, there was a look on Sherlock’s face that said his words weren’t quite in line with his actual thinking.

      “Maybe, but money is money, no matter how you earn it and if you can earn it in a way that doesn’t disappoint John, that just seems a smarter choice.”

Sherlock waved off Greg’s little speech, but the older man could tell that speech was being run through Sherlock’s mind and analyzed in a hundred ways that probably made no sense to normal people, but would, ultimately, give Sherlock the confidence that accepting the offer would gain him far more than he would lose.

      “You should be focusing your attention on the roof, Lestrade, rather than my life, for it is more likely to appreciate your fumbling efforts than me.”

      “I’m not sure about that since my attention to the roof might result in a hole that’ll to make our lives miserable when it rains.  I don’t think I can make a hole in your life, no matter how hard I try.”

      “That… you actually made a valid point.”

      “It happens now and again, usually by accident.  So… roof.  Looking pretty dodgy here and there, I do admit.  What do we do about it?”

      “Obtain the funds to hire someone to fix it.”

      “I can’t access my accounts and you’re probably skint.”

      “Mrs. Hudson keeps the household emergency funds in the tin marked ‘Lard.’ “

      “Really?  How dead will we be if we take it?”

      “Hmmm… marginally more than if we fall off this roof directly on our heads.”

      “That’s not good.”

      “But far less perspiration-inducing.”

      “We’ll consider it Plan B and see what we can do ourselves.  If we actually don’t fuck this up completely, Mycroft and John will be highly impressed. Which means happy things for our love lives.”

      “That… that may be the second valid point you have made today.”

      “I think that’s a record.  Could be a good omen.”

      “It would likely be a better one if we had some degree of knowledge about roof repair.”

      “I’m going with ‘if there’s a hole, patch it.’ “

      “With what?”

      “Uh… I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

      “You are an idiot.”

      “Yeah.  My infrequent valid points don’t really change that, do they?”

      “No.”

      “No… oh well.  Mycroft said the local builder is a woman, so maybe a little charm and she’ll give us some tips?”

      “You are as charming as a maggot.”

      “We work with what we have, Sherlock, in this cruel, cruel world…”

__________

      “My god… I don’t know how you do it, Mycroft.  Is everyone over the age of fifty in this village a sworn enemy of the medical profession?”

Given he had John’s free services for the day, Mycroft had expanded their rounds slightly to include checks on several others in the village who had this issue or that, and was, himself, utterly unsurprised by John’s somewhat prickly welcome.

      “Perhaps, ‘enemy’ is too strong a term, however, they do view doctors as individuals with whom one associates only when one is at death’s door.  However, with appropriate handling, they generally can be persuaded into receiving some degree of examination and treatment.”

      “I’ll give you credit for the appropriate handling, Mycroft.  That was some _very_ impressive manipulation you managed but, for a good cause, so I can’t say it’s a bad thing.  That Mr. Fisher _will_ need watching for his cold.  I’m already a bit worried it’s moving into his chest and, given his age and level of activity, it can lead to pneumonia.”

      “I shall inform our local physician of the situation and I have no doubt he will keep a weather eye on the situation, as will I.”

      “Good.  That’s part of your job, is it?  Health monitor?”

      “Monitor of many things, actually.  Health, domestic dynamics, individual moods and behaviors, the mood and behavior of the village as a whole, the status of the various businesses and agricultural pursuits, well-being of pets…”

      “You’re a better man than me, Mycroft Holmes.”

      “Busier, perhaps, but certainly not better.  We all have our talents and strengths, which are provided from above so we can help our fellow man.  You certainly do that, from what I have been told.  So few offer their services to the vulnerable among us and their need is certainly as great as any might claim.”

John wasn’t entirely certain how much Mycroft knew about his work in London, but some was knowledge was had about the one part of his work that John actually took a lot of pride in, though it didn’t pay a shilling.

      “I… it passes the time.  I have a sense of responsibility for them, I suppose.  You believe, when you’re in the military, that you’re protecting your country and working to make the world a safer, better place.  Unfortunately, that safer, better place _isn’t_ your country for some of its people and… I do what I can, that’s all.”

      “It is far more than most and, I have no doubt, is appreciated by those who receive your help.”

Given the lovely opening he had just been offered, Mycroft decided the strategy of ‘there’s no time like the present’ was the correct tactic for the moment.

      “I would ask, though, John… why are you no longer practicing legally?  I highly doubt it stems from lack of skill or compassion.”

      “It’s not important.”

The slightly clenched jaw told Mycroft his companion would rather not broach the topic, however, that particular option was not precisely on the afternoon’s agenda.

      “I disagree.  You have noted talent for the profession and should have all options available to you to practice.”

      “I’m still doing what I love, license or not.”

      “True, but if the authorities learn of this, I do not envision they will have a charitable outlook on the matter.”

      “Not a problem, then, since I don’t plan on being caught.”

      “Very Sherlock-like.  However, such has not served him well in the past and I am particularly well-suited to make that assessment.”

      “Oh, I have my own sack of examples to corroborate your testimony, so my expertise isn’t bottom-of-the scale either.  It’s just… really, I’m fine with what I’m doing now.”

      “John, it does not require a great deal of observational ability to determine you are being untruthful.”

Something John knew well, but hoped Mycroft was sufficiently polite not to mention.  Apparently, he was now the one being appropriately handled and he couldn’t honestly say it wasn’t working.  It was just… not something he liked talking about.

      “Yeah, I suppose not.  It’s… when I came back to London…”

      “Yes?”

      “War’s not easy.”

      “I… no, I never supposed it was.”

      “It’s… it’s not easy at the best of times.  When everything is going as it should, it’s still harsh… brutal sometimes.  You do a lot of things you’d like to forget, even if you had good reasons at the time for doing them.  It’s worse, though…”

The long pause alerted Mycroft that the conversation had taken a rather sharp turn and it had a shape he recognized from others in the military to whom he reached out a helping hand.

      “John, did something happen to you?”

Mycroft hadn’t predicted John starting to laugh, but the laughter bore no resemblance to the doctor’s normal jolly tone and confirmed in the vicar’s mind that he was on the right track.

      “I got shot!  So, yes… something happened.”

      “Oh dear… I am very sorry, John.  Will you tell me the story?”

      “Not much to tell, really.  We were taking fire and I got hit in the shoulder.  Did a lot of damage and… they couldn’t get me or any of the wounded out quickly.  We lost a lot of men that day who would have survived otherwise and I… I was nearly one of the ones we lost.”

      “Such a terrible thing you experienced.  Are you now well?”

      “Depends what you mean by _well_.  Shoulder healed relatively successfully, big scar, but the range of motion is good and it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

A small light went on in Mycroft’s mind and he recognized the need for true understanding and comfort going forward.

      “Not all damage, however, is physical.”

      “No… no it’s not.”

      “And that has impacted your ability to work.”

      “I was… _am_ , I suppose… depressed, angry… I lost it with one too many patients, made too many mistakes that the nurse was lucky to find and correct.  I wasn’t happy when I was called for a hearing and had my license suspended, but I can’t say I was completely unhappy with the decision either.  I would have hurt someone at some point, I don’t doubt that at all.  Either threw a punch or made a mistake that wasn’t caught and that’s not something I can easily bear to think about.”

      “I see.  Such a terrible thing for you to endure and I commend your wisdom in acknowledging the problem, seeing both the root and the results.  Tell me, though, are you receiving the help you need for this?”

      “I… I’m still looking for the right person.  You have to fit with them, you know, for therapy or whatever to be effective.”

All meaning no, John was _not_ receiving help and, more to the point, was not actively seeking it in any form.

      “Of course.  It is a difficult thing, is it not, to speak about one’s self, especially the deepest and darkest parts of our soul?”

      “I… yeah, probably.”

      “It is made easier, perhaps, when the person to whom to speak has some experience with the situation and, further, an honest interest in you and your well-being.  Tell me, John, would you consider speaking to me about your situation?  I have counseled a goodly number of men and women who have served our nation proudly, so I assure you that what you harbor inside is neither unfamiliar, shocking or shameful in the slightest.  I would be happy to do this, John, honored, actually, for your valiant service deserves whatever help I can provide now that you are returned to us.”

It was easy to see that John was startled by the offer, but there wasn’t quite the light in his eyes that meant he agreed in any manner with Mycroft’s words.  Not that that would stop Mycroft from continuing to try.

      “Thanks, Mycroft, but it’s not necessary.”

      “An interesting term is _necessary_.  I would agree that you will not shrivel to a husk without a helpful ear to hear your troubles and offer compassion or comfort, but if a person cannot live the life they wish, that is a tragic thing, especially if there are steps to be taken to offer them the opportunity.  You have a great deal to offer, John, and I would like to help you extend that offer to others in our society.  More importantly, though… I would hope to ease the pain you carry in your heart and mind.  Physical pains heal and their impact on our lives fades accordingly.  Mental and emotional pain… they often do not heal themselves and continue to plague us with persistent ache, sometimes tolerable and sometimes savage, but ever-present and always diminishing the joy we take from our lives.  Do not let this continue, John, not if there is a willing soul ready to reach out and offer their assistance.”

John’s scowl was something Mycroft found encouraging, because it reminded him all too well of Sherlock’s, when his brother was grudgingly giving his words careful consideration and finding a truth in them he wished he had remained hidden.

      “You’re a busy man, Mycroft, you said so yourself.  And I won’t be here very long, so…”

      “I am never sufficiently busy that I lack time to lend my ear to someone who might benefit from it.  And, there is a marvelous invention called the telephone, which facilitates communication between interested parties no matter the distance between them.”

      “Funny.”

      “I thought so.  That is likely my only witticism for the day, so I feel most sorry for dear Gregory who shall now suffer my most taciturn speech when we return to the vicarage.”

Shaking his head slowly, John wondered a great deal about the Holmes brothers’ relationship.  Sherlock never mentioned he had a brother, but once the revelation had been made, Sherlock’s comments on Mycroft couldn’t be called positive by any measure.  However, they were so ridiculous and childish, that it was hard to believe he actually meant a tenth of his bluster.  And his portrait of Mycroft as a fat, humorless lump was wildly off the mark.  Maybe Greg knew more of the story.  He’d known Mycroft when they were young, so he must have known Sherlock, too…

      “Poor him.  But…”

      “Yes?”

      “I… look, Mycroft, I… Sherlock knows what happened, the basic facts, I mean, but I really don’t want… he doesn’t need to know…”

      “Whatever you and I discuss, John, is supremely confidential.  Sherlock cares for you, that much is clear as the finest crystal, and would do his best for you, I have no doubt, if you granted him the chance.  However, it is not his right to know what you choose, now, to keep private. Your words are safe with me, John.  I offer you my most solemn word on that.”

John’s scowl shifted a few times, to showcase the war that was raging inside of him.  He didn’t want to talk.  Not to anyone.  He’d sort things out on his own and… the fact that hadn’t actually been working wasn’t relevant because… it wasn’t.  He was a doctor and a soldier, for pity’s sake!  He didn’t need help for something as silly as feeling upset now and again.  Or having nightmares.  Difficulty controlling his temper… and other emotions.  Spoiling for fights and danger to such a degree he went out looking for trouble now and then when the itch was desperate for a scratch.  Ok, maybe talking to someone, unofficially, with no records to dog him, wasn’t the worst possible idea.

      “It wouldn’t hurt to have a chat on occasion, I suppose.”

      “No, I suspect it would not.  And, we do have a walk ahead of us to our next visit, so now might be a fine time to begin.  Why did you join the army, if I might ask?  I am fascinated by the personality and virtue of those who choose to serve our nation in such a manner.”

That, at least, was a fairly simple question and not one to raise John’s distress, which was certainly not what Mycroft wanted.  Work to create a level of comfort and trust, a sense that John was valued as a whole person, an important and worthwhile person, so he would speak more freely about the dark things that lived in his mind.  That was not an easy thing to do, for any person, but without a genuine belief that the person to whom you were talking took you seriously, would not judge, and honestly wanted to help, it was a thing that would _not_ happen in any shape or form.  And that was not acceptable.  For anyone he would offer what help he could, but for the man who saw beneath Sherlock’s surly façade and embraced what the peek behind the curtain revealed… he would go to the ends of the Earth and beyond…

__________

      “My owie is ow-ing.”

Greg held up his bruised thumb, with the injured digit completely hidden in the darkness from the cloud-shrouded moon, and earned Mycroft’s rolled eyes as his reward.

      “Is it now the rule that neither John nor I can leave you and Sherlock alone, lest injury and mayhem ensue?”

      “There was no mayhem!”

      “Kindly plead your case to Mrs. Hudson’s herb garden.”

      “Well… it wasn’t me who brought the mayhem.  I wasn’t the one who rolled off the roof and landed on her bloody weeds.”

      “According to Sherlock, your efforts to prevent his downfall were poor, at best.”

      “Not true. I made a grab for him when he started rolling, but…”

      “Yes?”

      “Fine!  Maybe I was laughing a bit too much to make a second grab, but it was that part of the house that must have been added on later and isn’t very high.  AND I knew, maybe, that there was a nice, soft bed of dirt beneath to cushion his pitiful fall.”

      “That nice soft layer of dirt was Mrs. Hudson’s prize herb patch and our eviction from the vicarage, again, is testament to her affection for thyme and sage.  Especially in their most youthful and fragile stage of spring growth, which is now, potentially curtailed for the season.”

      “Save your chiding for your brother.  There’s no evidence of me laying among the crushed baby plants, but Sherlock’s fragrant enough for Christmas dinner.”

      “The very reason he and John are _also_ evicted and I suspect their return shall be harder to bargain than shall be ours.  Was there any progress on the repairs, my dear, or was a hammered thumb and plummet onto the ground the only tangible outcome of your day?”

      “Actually, the blood from the cuts we got on all the fucking jagged bits of wood and whatever else roofs are made of is doing a great job holding things together for the moment.”

      “Gregory…”

      “And… we may have replaced a few bits of wood and whatnot that were spongy and looking discontent with life.”

      “Ah, excellent.  I am somewhat reticent to inquire as to the cost of the materials, but I suppose I must for our household budget.”

      “Ummmm… how about you don’t worry about that.”

      “I am now worrying about that thrice as much as I was before you spoke.”

      “Nobody was using that wood!”

      “You stole the roofing materials.”

      “Stole’s a harsh word.”

      “But accurate, if your expression is to be believed.”

      “Don’t believe it then.  Lies like a bastard, most of the time.”

Just wonderful.  Obviously, his guardian angel, and Gregory’s, had toddled off for a drink today and this was the result of their grievous negligence.

      “You will remove everything that you installed and… no, it would likely then be unusable and not worth the return to its proper owner.  Instead, you will tell me from whom you stole the materials and I shall pay for the theft… if I can… and prostrate myself before them, begging forgiveness for your actions.”

      “It was just some old boards and other random bits!  Nobody was using them!”

      “And you know this how?”

      “I… keen observation and judgement.”

      “Dear Lord…”

      “I admit I didn’t ask him, but that wasn’t really necessary what with the stuff just lying about with nobody’s name on it.”

      “Who, Gregory?  Who owns my roof?”

      “That Lord you go on about?”

      “From whom did you steal the building materials?”

      “I didn’t exactly steal them!  Sherlock and I got a touch flustered trying to work out what to do, so we took a break and, while breaking, we strolled over to talk to that builder you mentioned.  She gave us some ideas and where to go to get supplies.  I _did_ buy some of the stuff we needed and while Sherlock was paying with Mrs. Hudson’s lardy money…”

      “Which you also stole.”

      “It was household money!  And being used _for_ the household, so that’s not stealing, it’s proper application of designated funds.”

      “A judicious application of semantics.  However, do go on… reveal the full depth of your shame.”

      “There’s no shame.  We’d borrowed a lorry from the builder and when I was loading it… maybe I saw some things in the weedy overgrowth at the back of the property that looked like something we could use.”

      “I know precisely from where you obtained your supplies and am highly aware there is no weedy overgrowth.”

      “Oh.  Ok, so maybe it wasn’t _wildly_ weedy, but some of the plants certainly looked in need of a trimming.”

      “Dawn shall see me groveling at Pitcher and Son’s door, begging their mercy…”

      “They don’t open until eight, so you can sleep late.  Besides, I promise, hand on heart, that it was cast off tat that nobody was using.  _We_ had a use for it, so isn’t that a better thing than letting it rot doing no good at all?”

      “You shall not justify your thievery to me, Gregory Lestrade, for I know none of that went through your mind when you were frantically filling the lorry with whatever your hands could grab.  At least you had the presence of mind to borrow the lorry, rather than steal that, too.”

      “Well, when I say borrowed…”

      “GREGORY!”

      “Joking!  Really, I asked nicely…”

      “Flirted shamelessly.”

      “Tomato tomahto.  Anyway, that part was perfectly above board.”

      “Unlike my roof.”

      “You roof isn’t illegal, Mycroft.  I don’t think wood and nails can be charged with guilt by association.  But… if it makes you feel better, I’ll pop back tomorrow and say that I was looking over the bill and realized I’d forgotten to say I needed this and that, but grabbed it from the yard anyway.  I’ll apologize and pay the bloke for it, though John may have to get a bit of cash for me, since I’d rather not draw more from the bank, what with me already having pulled out some cash by… by legal and ethical means so you don’t have to worry about that one bit.”

      “Which, again, triggers my worry to an extreme degree.”

      “Then put it out of your mind and the extreme will fade away like a bad dream.  What about the rest of it, though?  Man gets paid, I look like a very honest fellow, and everyone’s happy!”

Mycroft sighed and gazed into his Gregory’s eyes, which looked exactly as they already had when he was maneuvering his way out of trouble.  Something the devil too-often accomplished with stunning levels of success.

      “And you must give me your most serious oath that you will not steal from anyone in this village again.”

      “So, the next village over is ok, right?”

      “I am now extending my prohibition to _all_ villages in the vicinity.  I recognize extending it to all of England would cause you to dissolve in a puddle of agitation, but I feel you can and, more importantly, _will_ agree to this geographical limit.”

      “And, by stealing, you mean…”

      “Every possible permutation of the myriad of historical and current meanings, both formal and informal, of the term.”

      “That’s rather strict.”

      “Gregory Lestrade…”

      “Fine!  Fine, I agree to your crotchety old crone strictness.”

      “Excellent.”

      “Still mad at me?”

      “Would you agree it is my due, given your dishonesty and the potential to besmirch my reputation by association with you?”

      “I… yeah.  I’m a bad, bad boy.”

      “That you are.  And ever have been, much to my eternal consternation.”

      “Bet you wanted to punish me good and proper a few times over the years.”

      “Now, being a grand example.”

      “Oh…”

Greg’s smile spread slowly and wickedly across his lips and he looked about the near pitch-black lane along which they’d been walking, smiling wider at the blissful solitude that surrounded them.

      “… maybe you should do something about that.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed slightly in confusion, then sharpened in a way Greg honestly hadn’t seen before, though he hoped he saw it again in the future.  Often.

      “I see.  And, now, after your flagrant disregard of both personal honor and my standing in the village, I receive impertinence from your lips?  Unacceptable.  On your knees, Gregory, this instant.”

Greg dropped like a stone, purring slightly when Mycroft’s long fingers wrapped around his chin to tilt his head upwards, so Mycroft could gaze fiercely into his eyes.

      “You are both willful and intemperate with your words.  Perhaps your mouth should be put to different use, while my temper cools.”

Using his free hand to unfasten his trousers, Mycroft drew out his stiffening cock and pulled Greg’s head forward, happy to see that his criminal quickly took the morsel into his mouth and began lavishing it with attention.

      “Hmmmm… yes, much better than hearing that mouth pester my ears with your voice.  But you are much too eager, Gregory.  I wish to savor your silence for a goodly while.”

Gripping Greg’s hair, Mycroft smiled at the low moan that sounded in the night from his thief’s response and took great care to control the pace, so his orgasm didn’t arrive in an embarrassing microsecond, which was Mycroft’s own internal battle, having nearly found his release the second his Gregory’s lips touched his flesh.

      “Excellent.  You are most responsive to a f… firm hand and rest assured if your performance flags, my hand shall grow most firm indeed.”

Greg’s excited whine and slight wriggle to reposition himself to reduce the straining pressure in his trousers was an utter delight in Mycroft’s opinion, but served to remind him that his partner would need his own tending to before something occurred that would be difficult to hide from the vicarage’s various prying eyes.

      “You are doing a very good job, Gregory.  Almost enough to earn my forgiveness for today’s heinous c… conduct.  If my orgasm is sufficiently pleasing, you will _nearly_ have gained back my good grace.  Do your best, Gregory and begin now.  I shall not be happy if you fail.”

Greg used every trick he knew with his tongue and kept his throat relaxed so he could take Mycroft as deeply as his lover desired, savoring the tight-fisted grip on his hair and quiet sounds his Mycroft made, which was a deeply satisfying combination of low moans and rumbly growls, which got louder until he finally tasted the salty, slightly bitter flavor of Mycroft’s release burst in his mouth, in a pleasingly-copious quantity.  Just as satisfying was the loosening of Mycroft’s grip, which morphed into a gentle hair-stroking motion as his partner hummed quietly and continued to slowly thrust into Greg’s mouth, experiencing every possible second of pleasure before letting his fingers trail along Greg’s cheek and taking a step back to refasten his trousers and smile approvingly down at his extremely-aroused lover.

      “I am highly pleased, my dear.  Highly pleased indeed.  And how quiet you remain, something which pleases me, also, along with the obvious pleasure you take from knowing you are properly accepting what is necessary to earn my forgiveness.  Let me see more clearly how glad you are for the opportunity I have bestowed.”

Greg’s fingers fumbled with his trousers and it took an extra second or two for him to have them unfastened, with his cock drawn out to present to Mycroft for inspection, moaning loudly when Mycroft’s foot reached out to gently tap the rigid erection as if testing the ripeness of a melon.

      “That will do.  Now, I shall award you no more than three minutes to provide me the viewing pleasure of your orgasm.  Again, if I am not content with your efforts, do not expect my forgiveness, no matter the passion of your pleas.”

Finally able to stroke his aching cock, Greg knew he wouldn’t need three minutes, but made his best effort to give his Mycroft a show that would shame a porn star, something which, along with his lover’s eyes watching him every moment, made his body hotter than the sun and finally come with a force that had him crying out loudly, both from pleasure and shock at how deeply that pleasure penetrated.

      “Beautiful, my dear.  You epitomize beauty when your face is alight with pleasure.  Here, let me help you stand.”

Something Greg was having a hard time doing since his legs had turned completely to jelly.  Fortunately, Mycroft was more than willing to support his lover while said lover regained his bearings during the long, slow kiss Mycroft began and let linger for as long as the two could survive without an abundance of air.

      “Fuck me, Mycroft… that was… that was fucking amazing.  I haven’t come that hard in my whole life!”

      “I agree wholeheartedly.  What you do to me, Gregory.  It is positively debauched.”

      “Which you adore.”

      “Unquestionably.”

      “We gotta think of something, love.  We _have_ to make this work.”

Mycroft laid a kiss on Greg’s forehead, then nodded his agreement.

      “Yes, I cannot lose you again, Gregory.  I simply cannot.”

      “A long night’s sleep with a sexy man should help with that.  The thinking, I mean.”

      “A laudable suggestion.  Though, it shall not likely start for some time, given our exile from home.”

      “That’s ok, I’m not ready to end our walk, anyway.  I… I’m finding I really like our walks in the evening.”

      “Then let us continue and see what surprises might await us.”

      “If an owl takes a crap on my head, I’ll rethink my liking of all this nature nonsense.”

      “I shall make note to purchase for you a hat.”

      “You take good care of me, love.”

      “I do try.”


	16. Chapter 16

Humming contentedly seemed a rather clichéd response to the previous evening, but Mycroft found he cared not a whit about cliché at the moment.  What a _profoundly_ satisfying evening it had been and that he was still experiencing the, what might be called afterglow, was to be celebrated, not questioned.  A powerfully erotic interlude, followed by a long, comfortable stroll and a longer, but just as comfortable sleep with his Gregory in his arms… utter bliss.  His personal views on an actual heaven to which to ascend after death was not as poetic as some might believe, but he would gladly claim to have, last night, savored the joys of heaven, though without the harps and puffy clouds.

      “Mr. Holmes?”

But, heaven did not linger long when there was work here on Earth to be done…

      “Yes, Mrs. Hudson?”

      “There’s… there’s a gentleman here who wants to talk to your Greg.”

      “Not Mr. Pitcher, I hope.  If Gregory has not made amends…”

      “No, it’s not Bill Pitcher and I gave that thief and your brother a good scolding for trying something wicked under… or on top of… this roof, so they both promised that they’d make it right before setting foot back here this morning.  That Doctor Watson is along, too, so he’ll do what’s necessary to keep them honest, even if he has to use some of that army training and add a few new, shiny ones to their bruise collection.  This fellow… I haven’t seen him before and he asked for Mr. Lestrade by name.”

A warning bell went off in Mycroft’s brain and he quickly readied himself to get this person out of the vicarage before his Gregory returned.

      “Very well.  I shall tend to it.”

Standing and following Mrs. Hudson out of the study, Mycroft ran through a variety of responses and deflections to remove from their visitor the idea that anyone named Gregory Lestrade was staying with them and had them all fly out of his mind when he saw who was standing in their sitting room.  A face that was highly familiar, but in much older form.

      “M… Mr. Lestrade?”

      “It _is_ you, Mycroft.  You… well, I suppose I’d sound daft if I said it looked like you’d grown up a bit, given how long it’s been since I’ve seen you but… you’ve grown up a bit, haven’t you?”

      “I… what…”

      “And a vicar, too!  The wife and I always wondered what happened to you, smart boy that you were, and she’ll be thrilled, just thrilled that you got where you wanted to go.  Always had that air about you and such a kind, patient heart…”

      “I… thank you, but… might I ask…”

      “Why I’m here?  Looking for that bastard son of mine!  He’s… we can’t find him, lad.  His mother and me are worried near to death and I’m hoping you’ve got something, know something…  his phone’s not on or it’s turned off, he’s not been at his flat, nobody’s seen him…”

      “Oh… dear me.  But, why would you…”

      “Think he’s here?  Well, if he found a spot of trouble, which is _always_ likely, given it’s Greg, and he had to hide away somewhere safe… he really doesn’t have a somewhere safe of his own, besides with us, so he… I thought he might try and find the one safe place he always ran to when he was in trouble or angry with the world.  _Have_ you heard from him, Mycroft?  Seen him, at all?”

Mycroft shared a look with Mrs. Hudson that said, first, Greg was in for another scolding and, second, it would be heartless to send Greg’s father away without the pleasure of watching the scolding take place.

      “He _is_ here, Mr. Lestrade.  Mrs. Hudson was simply being cautious when you arrived because, yes, Gregory has found himself in a touchy situation, though I cannot fully put the fault of it on his shoulders.”

      “Oh, thank heavens… his mother is going to cry, she’ll be so relieved.  And, it’ll keep her out of the crisps for awhile, hopefully.  She’s gone through eight bags and four tins of those biscuits your mum used to keep about for _special_ people in the past three days!  I’m not certain how her body’s still working what with nothing going into it but sugar, fat and salt, but it’s probably a miracle, something you should appreciate.”

Mycroft lost the last of his shock and smiled at the memory of his Gregory’s mother who, like Sherlock, could eat cake batter all day and not gain an ounce.

      “And I suspect her figure is still as trim as ever.”

Greg’s father had a laugh eerily similar to his son’s and Mycroft had to check a moment that his lover hadn’t returned unexpectedly and was joining in on the fun.

      “Yes!  Lucky bird’s still lean as a pencil.  Not like me.”

The smile on Mycroft’s lips widened as he watched his guest pat his stomach and took comfort that some things in this world remained familiar and constant.  Mr. Lestrade had always been a somewhat weighty fellow, with the jolly personality works of fiction generally associated with that body type.

      “Something that has my sincere sympathy.  It is only through Mrs. Hudson’s vigilance for my waistline that I do not present a similar silhouette, for I would gladly demand cakes, biscuits and the riches of meals each and every day.  I believe one of my most painful memories from my youth was watching sadly as Gregory and Mrs. Lestrade consumed heaping plates of chips when I was trying to dab the oil off the five I allotted myself as my meal.”

      “Chips dinners!  What a thing those were.  Katie wasn’t the only thing lean about those times, that’s for certain.  Ate what we had and lucky us the wife had the talent to make the best of it and keep something tasty on our table.  I thank my lucky stars every day for that woman, for countless reasons…”

So much from his childhood flooded back into Mycroft’s mind, including his secret wish to be adopted by the Lestrade family, which was as loving and supportive as any child could want.  As it was, he found himself at their table and watching telly with them so often it was as if he was another chick in their nest.  Now, if certain matters continued on their current trajectory, that wish might finally come true.

      “I remember her very fondly and agree that there are few with a heart as large and a smile as bright.  Shall we sit?  Perhaps you would like a cup of tea?”

      “Nice cuppa sounds perfect, actually.  It’s not a quick trip here from London and the tea on the train is bollocks.”

Nodding to Mrs. Hudson to prepare a suitable tray for their guest, Mycroft took a seat and prepared to set aside the planned work on his sermon to entertain his visitor and, perhaps, gain additional insights into his Gregory’s life as an adult.

      “I would ask, Mr. Lestrade, how you knew where to find me?  I… I am rather ashamed that I have not reached out for even a simple hello in all these years.”

      “Not a thing to be ashamed of, lad, since we didn’t exactly try to stay in touch either.  Had our hands full with Greg going fairly far off his leash for awhile after you went off to college and… well, you blink and your hair’s gone silver and you’re retired!  Anyway, I asked about and old Mrs. Tate, the librarian, said she’d seen your photo with an article about flowers or something in, I suppose, your local paper or kept it, since she’s a nosy old bird who likes to know everything about anyone she’s ever know, but lucky me, am I right!   Since it was fairly recent, I asked her if there was a directory or something for clergy and, sure enough, there you were, still the man in charge of that lovely church I passed on my way here!  I thought I’d come here in person, rather than phone, so… I don’t know.  Maybe if Greg was here, I could box his ears good and proper, and get the story out of him.  How bad’s this trouble he’s in, Mycroft?”

      “Ummmm…”

      “That bad, huh?”

      “The situation is a somewhat complex one and, though he is not blameless, it is the action of others that precipitated his flight from London and makes it risky, at this time, to return.”

      “That Greg… he thinks his mum and I don’t know what he’s up to, but we’re not stupid.  He always was a boy with his fingers in the till or wrapped around something that wasn’t his.  We could never understand it, because he’ll do things like… one time, he stole an enormous bag of sweets, but gave away half of it to some little tots a few doors down whose family had things worse than us.  He came home looking a fright from this or that scuffle he’d had for idiotic reasons, but never shied from throwing punches if someone was the victim of a nasty bit of cruelty.  His heart was always… no matter how often his mother and I fretted over what would become of him, we never thought he was a _bad_ boy.  Just… I don’t know.  I didn’t know then and I don’t know now…”

A condition that had plagued Mycroft, too, and he was forever grateful that the Lestrades never gave up on their son and continued to offer him love, patience, understanding and what guidance they could or his dearest easily could have become the ‘bad’ person they all feared.

      “Gregory’s moral code has always been highly unique and bewilderingly complex.  There was never, I felt, a sense of black or white about him, he always lived within the grey areas, never fully embracing evil or good with anything approaching a firm grasp.”

      “That’s about the sum of it, I suppose.  Lad bought us a nice little place, which couldn’t have been cheap, and all he says is that he’s a businessman.  We’re not so in the dark that we don’t know when a man won’t tell you what business he’s in, it means it’s not something the constabulary would applaud.”

      “I… well, it is not my place to divulge his personal affairs, but I can offer that, from what he has told me… he has not strayed into darker areas than are his norm.”

      “That’s something, at least.  Is he… I presume if he was here now, he’d had poked his nose in, at some point.”

      “Actually… the reason Gregory is not present at the moment is… well, I must admit I believe you would find it an amusing story.”

      “Then, tell all!  I’d… I’d like to wait for him, if that’s alright.  Just to… I don’t know, hear from him what’s going on and see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

      “You are welcome to stay as long as you like.  Might I offer you the phone to inform Mrs. Lestrade of your success?”

      “Cracking idea!  You were always a smart lad, Mycroft.  Katie will be thrilled to know… well, that you’re still the person we knew you were and taking care of our Greg, just like always.”

Fortunately, for Mycroft, the elder Lestrade hopped up to use the phone sitting on a side table so he missed the look on Mycroft’s fact that surely would have prompted a raised eyebrow and maybe a question Mycroft wasn’t quite certain he was prepared to answer.  At least, not without consulting his lover and agreeing upon an appropriate course of action for informing the Lestrades about their new dynamic.  It _would_ have to occur, but… sometimes a delicate, prudent touch was required.  How lucky that his touch was both a deft and delicate one, when brought to bear on conversation, given his Gregory’s touch for strategic discussions left a rather mountainous something to be desired…

__________

Since it was unlikely that barbarians were storming the house, Mycroft prepared to receive any of the three missing household members and inquire as to how and why they had perturbed Mrs. Hudson to such a degree.

      “Fuck!  Mrs. Hudson nearly broke my arm manhandling me in here and… no.  DAD!”

Oh good, Gregory was home.

      “There’s the fruit of my loins, all fermented and sour from his wicked ways.”

      “What… Mycroft, why the FUCK did you call my father?”

      “Hey!  You watch your language, you little fucker!  You’re not too old to put over my knee!”

      “And, I would never phone your father without your permission, Gregory Lestrade, so your outburst is entirely unwarranted and notably insulting.”

Greg snarled and shoved down the rising chaos of what-the-fuck that was swirling in his head… especially, since there were two people staring at him with angry eyes and both could reduce him to an apologetic mass of jelly if they added even an atom’s more fuel to their internal fire.

      “I… fine, I’m sorry.  For the language _and_ the accusation.  Which makes you being here, Dad, even more confusing!”

      “Why?  I was a cop… those investigatory instincts are still top notch!”

      “You did late-night work as a security guard at the scrapheap!”

      “And I had to talk to the cops all the time, what with little buggers like you, _including_ you, jumping over the fence to steal things, start fires and the like.  And you, specifically, brought the PC’s to our door more often than was proper for something daft and illegal you’d done.  Just more experience to add in up here.”

Tapping his temple, Greg’s father ignored his son’s glare and initiated his _paternal_ instincts as he ran his eyes over Greg, who seemed healthy, despite his irritation, and, if you were truly scared, you didn’t muster that degree of irritation at something as minor as your dad showing up to say hello, so… his son was ok.  For now.

      “Funny.  Why are you here?  How did you even know here _was_ here!”

      “You mum and I were worried sick, you stupid prat!  You run off without a word to either of us and we’ve been frantic trying to find you.  Finally thought that if you’d gone to ground, you’d probably find the safest ground possible, so… I went looking for that one over there and it seems I was right.”

      “I recognize your need for secrecy, Gregory, however… to allow your parents to worry so greatly was not terribly considerate.  I have no doubt you could have fabricated some…”

      “Stop!  Stop right there, both of you judgmental bastards.  Dad, I phoned and left a message on your machine that I was to be out of London for awhile on business.”

      “You mean that thing you bought your mum last month?  That’s not possible, because the bugger’s been flashing the out-of-battery light and I haven’t got around to putting fresh ones in.”

      “It doesn’t use batteries, you old loony!  Did you never notice the plug that goes into the magical wall holes that let your lamps glow and telly work?  That light means you have a fucking message!”

      “It does?”

      “Yeah!”

      “Oh.  Well, silly me, then.”

Greg’s muffled scream drew a smile from Mycroft’s lips and his brain took the opportunity to politely remind him that his own apology was in order.

      “It is appropriate, then, for me to offer my own mea culpa, Gregory, and I do so sincerely.  I should not have doubted your forethought and level of concern for your parents.”

      “Well, if I’m honest, Anderson reminded me to do it, so I can’t claim to be a very good son, in that respect.  But my technology-phobic parents need to learn to use their fucking machine.”

      “Hey!  Your mum got the video thing to stop flashing the time, so we’re getting there!”

      “That flashing you did something about, but not this one!”

      “Batteries cost money!”

      “You didn’t need batteries!”

      “Well, I know that _now_!”

Mycroft marveled how his libidinous, nefarious lover could be utterly indistinguishable from every other adult son with normal, loving parents.

      “Do pardon me, but if I may… I believe we can all agree that there was a lamentable misunderstanding here, but has now been rectified so all swords can happily return to their scabbards.”

      “Listen to that!  Our Mycroft here’s still the same, isn’t he, Greg?  Sounded like a toff even when he was just a tiny nipper and that hasn’t changed a bit!”

Huffing a loud sigh, Greg dropped onto the small sofa next to his father and shot Mycroft a look that screamed he needed twelve glasses of whiskey and needed them fast.

      “Yeah, but they say that how you talk does help slot you into what you want to do in life, so some professor or vicar was probably inevitable.”

      “True, but you don’t sound like any of those those gangsters I see on the telly, so there’s your theory gone to shit.”

The sound of Greg’s choking actually reminded Mycroft very much of a gangster he had seen once on the telly.  Of course, that gentleman was in the midst of being throttled to death, but the acoustical similarity was astounding.

      “Wh… Dad!  What in the world made you say that?”

      “Probably you being a fucking gangster.  Or whatever it is you lot call yourselves now.”

Greg’s rapidly pointed finger was met with an as-quick raising of Mycroft’s hands in the time-honored ‘not me!’ gesture.

      “Wasn’t him, you evil boy.  Your mum and me have known something was foul in your feathers for a long time.  Won’t talk about what you do, but you sure have the cash from it to make our retirement something better than we’d ever hoped, and we do thank you for that, a lot, but don’t think we don’t know we’re living in a house bought by shady money.”

      “I… your perception of my employment is staggeringly off the mark.”

      “Awwww… you did that when you were a kid, too.  Lie through your arse and give yourself away by trying to sound like Mycroft because your little child brain thought that since he wasn’t an arse-faced liar, your mum and I would be fooled into thinking you weren’t either.”

      “I never… ok, I did do that.  But it’s _completely_ different now.”

      “If you’re hoping I’ve gone senile, Greg, you’re going to be disappointed since I haven’t, just as I haven’t forgotten about what we were talking about in the first place, which was you doing shady deals or whatever you crime types get up to to earn your wicked wage.”

      “You’re daft!”

      “Gregory… I believe now is the time for honesty.”

Mycroft’s tone, both gentle and firm at the same time, was exactly what Greg remembered from his lover stepping in when he’d gone, or was about to go, over the cliff and it was precisely the tone which would always draw him back and, most probably, save his fucking skin in the process.

      “Maybe, but I honestly believe you’d be happier not knowing, Dad.”

      “Bollocks.  Besides, I’ve done my bit of crime in the past, so I can’t wag a finger at you too hard.”

      “Sneaking into someone’s allotment and making off with an armful of their hard work isn’t going to send you to prison.”

      “Mr. Lestrade!”

      “Oh, fucking wonderful, Greg.  Putting my shame on full display with a vicar in the room!  See!  He’s giving me that evil eye vicar’s give when they’re about to put your balls under the hammer… it was Katie’s birthday!  We scarcely had a quid between us and she adores a bit of fresh fruit.  So, I surprised her.”

      “I hope, sir, you returned at some point and paid for the produce you stole.”

      “Well…”

      “Sorry, Mycroft, but Dad let Mum eat stolen fruit without one pence going back to the poor bloke who grew it.  The weed of crime bears bitter fruit.”

      “Don’t you quote _The Shadow_ to me, you little prick.  A few handfuls of fruit doesn’t even compare to whatever it was that had you running scared from London, now does it?”

The mutual rude gestures from father and son convinced Mycroft that, first, it was time for more tea and, second, said father and son might benefit from some time alone.

      “May I suggest that we postpone further discussion of this particular issue until Gregory has had a chance to relax from his morning and, perhaps, we all enjoy a light lunch to refresh ourselves.”

      “Food sounds good to me!  Those little sandwiches your housekeeper brought out really whet my appetite for more of her fine cooking.”

      “I am certain there are more in the kitchen, or something just as scrumptious, and Mrs. Hudson would be delighted to give you a small nibble before lunch is served.”

      “Ooh!  I’m onto that, then.  Greg, I phoned your mum, but you should, too, because I could hear her munching crisps while I was talking and I suspect she’ll need to hear your voice before she puts them down for good.”

Greg’s rolled eyes earned him a flicked ear by his father, who stood up, straightened his shoulders and slapped on a bright smile before strolling towards the kitchen to work the Lestrade charm on Mrs. Hudson and her cupboard.

      “The phone is just over there, Gregory.”

      “Funny.  But, I _will_ ring her today and say I’m sorry for them still being stuck in 1845.”

      “And that they were positively wild with worry.”

      “Yeah, that, too. Actually, the crisps comment was probably Dad reminding me that Mum’s blood pressure has been a touch worrying the past few years and her filling her veins with salt isn’t a good thing.”

      “Oh dear… I _am_ sorry, Gregory.  Is it serious?”

      “What?  No, not yet, at least.  Her dad had something similar and did alright with the pills the doctor gave him for it, along with not stuffing bags of crisps in his mouth, but… yeah, I’ll phone her.”

      “Excellent.”

      “And… I do apologize, love.  I know better than to think you’d call Dad like that without talking to me, unless this bullet wound in my arm had been in my stomach and I was at death’s door.”

      “Thank you.  I suppose, though, that it must have been quite the shock to see your father here.”

      “That’s an understatement.  But, I can’t fault his reasoning.  He and I always did think a lot alike, at least, in some ways.”

      “And you, also, have stolen fruit upon your conscience.”

      “I do!  Remember that, do you?”

      “I remember very well racing away at top speed from the grocer’s because you had seized a crate of strawberries from the delivery van and were seen doing it.”

      “You ate them, though.”

      “I… I like strawberries.”

      “Don’t I know it.”

Greg checked his father wasn’t peeking, then darted over to his lover and gave Mycroft a quick kiss and bop on his nose.

      “It is the very reason several of our local farmers have, now, a tidy business growing certain items in greenhouses for the discerning connoisseur.  And, given the change in the trajectory of our day, might I inquire as to the whereabouts of Sherlock and John?”

      “Stayed in the village.  John wanted to look about a bit more and have a few pints at the pub.  Sherlock’s rolling about on the ground in a tantrum didn’t do more than get him dusty, so we’ll see them later.”

      “Or sooner, if you would like to escort your father on a tour of our lovely hamlet.”

      “I don’t think there’ll be time for that.”

      “Given you have matters of importance to discuss with him and the last train to London is not a late one…”

      “Shit!  He’s here overnight, isn’t he?”

      “I suspect so.  Do enjoy sleeping on the sofa.”

      “What!”

      “Of course, you might forestall that fate if we choose to uptake with your father a discussion of our relationship.”

Greg’s clenched fist, agitated toddler dance was a vision to behold, so Mycroft took the time to admire it fully until his partner had worked through his non-verbal statement on the subject of disclosing their romance.

      “Are you worried your father will not approve, my dear?”

      “I… I have no idea what he’ll think, to be honest.  I don’t share anything about my love interests with them and there’s never been one of this horrid father-son chats about sex to burn out a corner of my brain.”

      “In truth, I would not be at all put out if you shelved that conversation for later this evening given the other issues you need to discuss with him and the need for this issue to be handled somewhat carefully and, likely, with input from the both of us.  I cannot, however, guarantee that Sherlock will not lay bare this particular matter, if only to be witness to what he hopes will be a colorful outcome.”

      “Double shit!  He would, too, the little bastard.”

      “And you lack sufficient funds to offer a tempting bribe.”

While three-year-old Greg danced again, Mycroft now-now’ed gently and gave him a small tug towards the kitchen to find a cool beverage to soothe his humors.  The day had certainly taken an unexpected turn, but they were both well-qualified to handle any and all fall-out from whatever eruptions might ensue.  However, if that failed, perhaps they could create enough of a fracas that Mrs. Hudson again tossed them out into the night to gain for herself a few hours of peace and quiet.  His Gregory on the sofa or his Gregory in their bed… there would be no sexual shenanigans tonight with Gregory’s father on premises, so other arrangements would have to be made for that particular need of the body.  It simply was not appropriate to do such a thing with a parent in the house.  Especially if one was not completely certain the ensuing vocalizations would not be audible to the parent sleeping in the next room…


	17. Chapter 17

Greg was both happy _and_ peeved that no sensitive topics were raised during their lunch, because if that had happened, Mycroft would be there to help navigate them.  Now, here he was, alone, with his father, while Mycroft worked on his sermon and _he_ played tour guide.  The likelihood that a verbal ambush was in lying in wait was, undoubtedly, punishingly high… at least, they were in church right now, so maybe baby angels would take pity on him.

      “Now, this is a proper church, this is.  Just like you see on the postcards and in films.”

      “Mycroft’s proud of it, that’s for certain.”

      “He should be.  It fits him, too, know what I mean?  He’s got an old soul and this is the type of church a person like that… like I said, it fits him.  He seems happy, too.  Content, happy… is that true?”

      “I doubt he could be happier.  Small community where he can really make a visible difference in people’s lives and be involved in the going’s on… Sherlock says he’s a meddler, but I think it’s actually a real interest in those people and honest hope to get everyone sorted out the best way he can.  Maybe that _is_ meddling, but I can’t say it’s not a part of the job, too, and he does that job very, very well.”

      “That brother of his… still a handful?”

      “Oh, no changes there, that’s for certain.  He and his…”

Ok, maybe this wasn’t the time to announce Sherlock and John’s relationship, so implementing the careful and neutral response so no dad-instincts start pinging like some fucking radar that had found an enemy submarine.

      “… _friend_ John are puttering around the village, so we may cross paths with them today.  In any case, they’re staying with Mycroft, so prepare for dinner with lots of Sherlock-provided entertainment.”

      “That’s worth the price of the train fare alone!  And, friends, you say.  That the type of friends where they have a pint now and then or the type of friends where they’re shagging?”

ACK!

      “DAD!  How… you’re not supposed to know about stuff like that.”

      “Are you an idiot?”

      “NO!  I… well, sometimes, but not now!  You’re… old.”

      “Yeah, an idiot.  You probably think your Uncle Jeff never married because he just never found the right woman.”

      “Wh… what?”

      “And that his living with Glenn for two decades is just because they get along well and it’s nice to have someone to share the rent.”

No.  No no no no no.  There was no way in creation he was _that_ oblivious.  Not Greg Lestrade.  Greg Lestrade was well-renown for living by his fucking wits and… non-obliviousness!

      “I… really?”

      “Idiot.”

Oblivious as a sodding rock.  Not even a fancy, colorful one, either… one of those lumpy, gray ones that isn’t even shaped like something rude or a turtle to add a bit of interest.

      “Yeah, I… I suppose I am.  Mum never said anything, though.”

      “Well, I don’t think she suspected her son was a blithering idiot, so it probably never occurred to her.  And, to be fair, she rightly views her brother’s business is his own.  She doesn’t go around talking about her sister having a taste for men, either, does she?  Just the fact she’s had four different husbands and is eyeing number five as we speak.”

If that wasn’t sign of the Apocalypse, nothing was.

      “Fuck me, if I have to go to another one of Auntie Doris’s horrible weddings, I’ll slit my throat.”

      “We can share a knife.  I told Katie that if that daft bird has another ‘theme’ wedding, I’m giving myself the plague or something, because I am _not_ going, but won’t leave her without a good excuse for not being there because I love her.”

      “And she made you your favorite lemon cake because you were just so sweet and considerate.”

      “Of course!  I’m not the idiot here, you are.”

      “Apparently, I am.  So, old Jeff’s been keeping closer company with his housemate than I realized.”

      “I admit, things were kept a bit under the rug until your grandmother died, because she would have had heart failure hearing the news, we suspected, but your little unobservant eyes never noticed, it seems, that Glenn was at all the family holidays and such.”

      “I… I _did_ , but…  so was Doris’s bloke-of-the-month.”

      “And you never thought, well crazy Doris is bringing the one she’s fucking, so Jeff’s doing the same.”

      “I… oh god, I’m one of those people.”

      “I have no idea what that means, but I agree, because it sounds horrid.”

      “I’m one of those stupid people who just don’t put to and two together… yeah, it never, ever, occurred to me to think of Jeff and Glenn that way.  EVEN when I say ‘Jeff and Glenn’ like I would any fucking couple.”

      “Probably where you got it from.”

      “Got what from?  Being an idiot?  I know who I got that from and he’s standing here with me in Mycroft’s church.”

      “No, liking to shag men.  I’m hearing in the news that there might be some of that genetics involved, so… now what’s wrong?  Look like you’ve seen a ghost, which I admit _could_ be possible in a church this old.”

      “Pfw…”

      “Were you trying to make a word?  Got a frog in your throat?  Or something else…”

      “DON’T YOU LEER AT ME, YOU EVIL OLD MAN!”

      “Heh, definitely something else.”

      “NO!  I… I have no idea where you got that idea, Dad, but…”

      “Your mother and I gave you lots of privacy when you were a lad, Greg, but not so much your mum couldn’t help but notice the various articles and magazines you collected and tried to hide when she did a bit of cleaning in your bedroom.”

      “Wrong!  Not one bit of porn did she find.  None.”

      “Who said anything about porn?  While I admit it might not be unusual for a boy just out of puberty to be reading lots of sports mags and saving that section of the newspaper now and again, but when they save a suspiciously-large amount of stuff about men’s swimming, diving, gymnastics… one thing sticks out about all of that and here’s a hint – it’s in the crotchal region.”

      “I… shit.  I never… really, it was _that_ much?”

      “Convinced yourself you just had an appreciation for different sorts of sports than the norm?”

      “I… yeah, I think I did.  I genuinely didn’t fully know when I was that age.”

      “Something your mum and I suspected, since you only chased after girls or, at least, that’s all we ever heard about or noticed.  Your mum was happy, though, since it doubled your chance of finding someone special to love, since you didn’t have to count on one sex, when you had two to choose from!”

      “You never said anything.”

      “What part about a man’s business being his own didn’t you understand?”

      “I… fuck you.”

      “Got your mum for that, thank you very much.  Besides, if it had seemed a problem, like you needed someone to talk to, we would have stepped in.  If we missed something, Greg, if you did need to talk to someone, then I _am_ sorry.  We’d have tried, but… I think we also were both a bit worried we’d be shit at that and make things worse.”

      “No, actually… I really didn’t entirely know that I also fancied men and when I did fathom it out…”

      “You were happy that you had double the chance to pull when you went to a club.”

      “Basically, yeah.  And double the clubs to go to, too.”

      “Ooh, that’s true.  That’s my Greg, always thinking with his cock.”

      “Completely not true.”

      “Fine, you also think with your wallet and what illegal thing you need to do to fill it up nice and plump.”

Oh joy.  Not even trotting down this unexpected road could turn his fucking father away from that enormous elephant in the room.

      “Now, Dad?  We’re doing all of this _now_?”

      “Why not?  We’re in a church and you’ve got to be honest and reflective in church.”

      “Oh no, don’t start that nonsense with me.  You never took me to church once.”

      “I beg to differ.  How many times did we take you and Mycroft to church for Christmas to let that poor boy do something that was truly important to him and give him some sense of family, while doing it?”

Alright, that had to score as a goal for his dad’s team.  Seeing Mycroft’s face, glowing brightly as they sat there, with their local church wearing its best frock, music playing and candles glowing… it was worth, _more_ than worth, every moment of being there which, to his younger self, seemed almost like torture.  Now, as long as Mycroft was up there at the pulpit… the torture wasn’t quite as torturous…

      “Ok, you win that one.”

      “I’d say so, especially since… well, our Mycroft is a vicar, now, isn’t he?  Encouraging youthful interests pays dividends for once.”

      “Let me guess, you and Mum are coming here for Christmas services from now to eternity, aren’t you?”

      “Oh, there’s no question about that.  The train’s not expensive, so why not give my lady wife the chance to enjoy a tidy little village at Christmas with our own Mycroft up there doing us proud…”

Mycroft would, too.  There was no doubt his lover would throw his all into his Christmas sermon and it would be glorious to behold.  In truth, also, it would make his parents so proud their hearts would nearly burst.  They’d always encouraged Mycroft’s hopes and dreams, even when it seemed highly unlikely he’d be able to achieve them, since poor lads from their part of London seldom got the chance to grab the brass ring…

      “Fine, then.  We resurrect our quasi-family tradition and use our arses to warm a pew for Christmas.”

      “Provided _your_ arse isn’t in jail.”

      “DAD!”

      “It’s a valid concern, what with you robbing banks or stealing cars or whatever else it is you do.”

      “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

      “Greg… again, your mother and I have respected your privacy, but don’t think, not for one fucking moment, that we haven’t known you were doing something shady and, I’ll tell you this for free, it has us worried.  That you never seemed unduly worried or looking over your shoulder half the time made us think that maybe it wasn’t _too_ bad and that the coppers weren’t near to laying a hand on your shoulder, but… we know, Greg.  Might as well just get it out in the sunshine and… I don’t know.  It’ll help us just to have some real idea of what’s going on and, maybe, if you need someone to talk to about all of that, you _can_ come to us.”

Greg scowled thunderously, but knew that look on his father’s face.  It was the one that said he was truly hoping for his son to make a good decision, but feared he’d make a crap one, instead.  Too often, that was precisely what happened, but this time… this time Greg had a strong and unfamiliar urge to break pattern.  After motioning his dad to have a seat in one of the pews, Greg cast a look at an imaginary Mycroft at the altar, giving him an encouraging smile, and dove into telling his father what he’d been doing the past years and why, now, he was staying very much out of sight.

      “Oof… well, I suspected it’d be a headache-bringer and I was right.  What does Mycroft think about all of it.”

      “He… he’s not happy about it, but I wouldn’t expect him to be.”

      “He’s still letting you stay here, though.”

      “Well, it’s charitable, isn’t it?  Also… I did promise him that I didn’t do anything that I knew he would despise me for doing.”

      “He believed you?”

      “Yeah.  And he’d know if I was lying.”

      “That he would.  Well… if you’ve passed his truth test, then I’ll agree that it’s not something to make me and your mum happy, either, but it’s also not so horrible that we’d cast you out for it.  Is there… is there _some_ way we can help, though?  I know my son… you’re glad on one hand that you’ve found good money and I know better than most how much you like having one over on people who ought to know better or are shit examples of people to begin with, but… I also suspect you’d set it aside if you saw something else that kept you flush.  And that you enjoyed or gave you a challenge.”

And he _would_ help, too.  His father would move heaven and Earth to give his son the very best the Lestrade family could provide.  He always had, no matter how hard or frustrating it might have been.  Often, ‘the very best’ hadn’t amounted to much, if measured objectively, because they were skint and his parents worked like dogs just to keep them at that level, but… even his young self saw how they hard both tried to give him the best life they could and agonized that ‘the best life they could’ wasn’t, in money terms, very much, at all.  In love, though… he was a _very_ rich boy growing up and that was more than a lot of the berks he knew could claim.

      “Thanks, Dad.  Right now, I… I’m not thinking about the future beyond getting my neck off this chopping block.  Then… I don’t know.  There’s a lot to think about there.”

      “Fair.  Handle the stuff that’ll crush your balls first; makes sense to me.  After that, though… can we talk, at least, son?  I’d… I’d like to hear what you think about your life and you mum will want the chance to hear things straight from you.  Is it… can we do that?”

      “Yeah… we can.  I… I hate the idea of seeing mum disappointed in me, but I can’t say I’ve not seen that look before.”

      “Disappointed, yes, but she never gave up on you, Greg.  Loves you as much now as she always has and that’s so much… I can’t even describe it, simple man that I am.”

      “I think she might have gotten teary when I phoned her earlier.”

      “Yeah, and you’re a lucky fucker I didn’t crack your skull for making her worry like that.”

      “I wouldn’t have complained.  I hate worrying mum and she certainly doesn’t deserve it. How’s she doing?”

      “With the blood pressure?  Not bad, as long as her bastard of a son doesn’t send her into the crisps again.”

      “Thanks.  But, seriously.”

      “Seriously, her doctor’s satisfied with the meds she’s on and what they’re doing.  We’re both supposed to exercise more, but who the fuck has time for that?”

      “You do, you fat bastard!”

      “Pfft.  Lots of me to love is something your mother appreciates a very great deal.”

      “I’m buying you one of those bicycles that go nowhere or a treadmill or something to work some of that fat off your arse.”

      “Buy?  Don’t you know some ‘distributor’ you can get one from in, I don’t know, _trade_?”

      “I like the way you put ‘distributor’ in those in-the-air quotes.”

      “Hey!  I’m showing support for my thieving son!”

      “So you get a free exercise bike!”

      “Well… support comes in a lot of ways.”

      “I’m telling Mum.”

      “Won’t be able to with all your teeth knocked down your throat.”

      “I can write!  You can’t hide your shame, old fat man.”

      “Fine.  Be that way.  _I’m_ telling Mycroft.”

      “Oh, fuck you!”

      “Ha!  I now know the secret weapon to cut the legs, and teeth, out of that evil bastard, Greg Lestrade.”

      “Fuck you and all your fat, you evil fucker.”

      “Speaking of, know what’s for dinner?”

      “Uh… I think I heard mention of a nice roast chicken and a good bit of veg roasted along with it.”

      “Oh, that’s the ticket.  Not quite your mum’s roast chicken, I suspect, but that Mrs. Hudson puts on a fine table.”

      “Mum’s roast chicken was mostly potatoes, with one piece of chicken apiece to feed the blood.”

      “You loved it.”

      “Yeah, I have to say, I did.”

      “Tell her that, why don’t you.”

      “I will.  And, that you’re fat.”

      “You’re going to burn in hell for being mean to your father in church.”

      “Mycroft will write me a note to keep me out of the flames.”

      “Not if he gets some of your mum’s trifle, which I remember well he adores.  Then he’s mine to command.”

      “Oh, the war has officially begun.”

      “One that you’ll lose.”

Not with the secret weapon I have, Dad of Evil.  But… you don’t need to know that right now.  That can be Mycroft’s job.  Or Mycroft’s and my job.  _Someone’s_ job.  That wasn't to be done now.  Greg Lestrade’s decisiveness, once again, is something to admire…


	18. Chapter 18

      “Oh, look how you’ve grown, you little scamp.  Still as scowly and snarly as you ever were, though.  Warms this old heart right up.”

John couldn’t stifle his grin, which had been fighting to break through when they ran across Greg and his father in the village.  Sherlock’s annoyance that another person he had no evil influence on had entered his life was truly a joy to behold.

      “Drink more, so I don’t have to listen to you.”

Sherlock slid over his pint of ale, then drew it back and slid over Greg’s instead.

      “Warm enough to bake a pie.  Katie’s going to be thrilled they haven’t locked you away in a home for bad little boys, which we didn’t think was out of the question.  Weren’t too upset about it, though, since it would give Greg someone he knew to talk to when _he_ got sent there, but you both sidestepped it all nicely, I’d say.  Well done!”

      “Unlike your unholy progeny, however, I was never a criminal.”

      “Tell that to the owner of the bookshop.  And the chemist.”

      “I…”

The faces that turned towards Sherlock were highly curious and made the newly-outed criminal squirm in his chair.

      “Dad… are you saying our little angel here had a case of sticky fingers when he was a lad?  This is something I did not know, but very much hope to know about _now_.”

Greg warded off Sherlock’s evil eye with a gesture that made John smirk and Sherlock hiss softly in promise of more evil to come.

      “That he did!  What a thing it was getting jarred out of a good morning’s sleep because Dan Farley knew Sherlock here didn’t have a dad at home and his mum… well, why bother her with news that he had this Artful Dodger sitting in his shop and pouting like a champion with a jacket stuffed full of stolen books.  Poor Sherlock here forgot that if you’re thin as a matchstick, suddenly looking portly _is_ going to be noticed.  He was only seven or so, though, _that_ time, so you have to forgive his small lapse of judgement.”

Now John was grinning openly because the image of a book-bloated baby Sherlock was the most adorable thing his brain could imagine.

      “There’s a thing called a library, Sherlock.”

      “Your hypocrisy is galling, Lestrade, as the number of things that stuck to _your_ proverbial fingers can be numbered in the thousands.  Besides… the library was not, if you remember, well provided with much besides dreary fiction and certainly had nothing to interest a mind as advanced as mine.”

      “Yeah, I have to admit it wasn’t the best in the world, but there was more than enough to read for most people who actually enjoy reading and aren’t trying to fathom out how to build a bomb with bits of string and a few dabs of clay.”

      “You had no right to confiscate my clay!”

Waving for the server to bring another round, John grinned at Greg’s dad and found himself marveling that the slick, scandalously corrupt Greg Lestrade claimed this decent, jolly fellow as a father.  But… John also had to admit that the Greg he’d met a few times in London wasn’t much like the Greg he’d gotten to know better since he and Sherlock arrived.  How much of that was just being away from the city and the wealth of pressures and expectations it brought versus being here, specifically, he didn’t know, but it certainly wasn’t hard to see that a certain vicar seemed to give the shifty criminal a great deal of peace that shifty criminal never seemed to have before.

      “What say, son, we make certain Sherlock here gets his skinny arse tied to a pew on Sunday so his brother can beat a little goodness into him?”

      “Sounds good to me.  John?  You in on the tying down?”

      “Hmmmm… Sherlock’s got strong fingers.  Better use chain.”

      “Your betrayal does not surprise me, John Watson, however, I will forgive it this single time as I have hoped to have more opportunity to practice my escape skills and this would serve that purpose, along with the delightful bonus of embarrassing Mycroft when my inevitable success and flight from his shrine to platitudes is noticed.”

      “Your escape skills gotten rusty, lad?  I remember them being top notch, as a matter of fact, but that was a lot of years ago.”

The twinkle in the elder Lestrade’s eyes made both John and Greg wild with curiosity, especially with Sherlock’s cheeks taking on the tiniest bit of pink, but an unexpected arrival at their table forestalled investigating this juicy bit of information any further.

      “Good.  I am not content, not one tiny bit, with the organization of spaces at the upcoming fete.”

Standing there glaring at Greg was the one person Greg had no desire to see today or any day for that matter, but other people’s wants were not something for which Mrs. Turner spared much concern, for they were certainly frivolous and undoubtedly examples of addled thinking.

      “Uh… ok?”

      “Well?”

      “Yeah?”

      “What are you going to do about it?”

      “Me?”

      “Who else?”

      “Ummm… Mycroft?”

      “Is he here?”

      “No.”

      “Then why did you even mention him, you foolish man!”

      “I… I have no idea.”

Dragging a chair from a nearby table, Mrs. Turner sat heavily down, purse clutched on her lap and fixed Greg with a steely look that even Sherlock found laudable.

      “Now, as you are the vicar’s… whatever it is you men call yourselves when you… well, I don’t know if it’s moral or not, but I’m not one to pry into the private business of anyone, let alone the vicar who’s supposed to know best about these sorts of things, but, let me tell you right now, that if you don’t do your duty towards Mr. Holmes and this community, I’ll have a word with him about your qualifications as a suitor!”

Greg did everything but grab his eyeballs with his fingers to keep from looking over toward his father, which is why he failed and caught full sight of the dropped jaw and look of... well, the shock was giving way quickly to something that looked like… amusement.  And scheming!  There was the clear glint of Lestrade-family scheming growing there and fuck everything in the world because of it.  In fact, fuck it all twice for good measure.

      “I’m _not_ Mycroft’s wife!”

      “Of course not!  Well, in truth, I have no idea which of you takes the woman’s role in your version of a courtship, however, I will not stand for any form of ceremony where either of you is wearing a wedding dress!  There are standards, by god, and I won’t see them set aside simply because one of you thinks you look good in white satin!”

Scheming intensifying!  Put your evil away, fat old man or no dinner for you!  Oh no, Dad was going to say something…

      “I quite agree, madam.  Any wedding would need to be properly solemn and respectful for the institution of marriage, which is something this younger generation seems not to embrace very tightly.  Tragic… it’s a tragic thing, but that’s what the likes of us is for, am I right?  I’m thinking a pair of handsome suits, in an appropriate dark color.  Not those tuxedos, which are staggering wastes of money and a big gaudy, if you ask me, but, respectful, tasteful suits that befit the sanctity of marriage, especially for someone who holds such an important position in your upright and decent community as our Mycroft.”

      “Finally!  Someone who understands propriety and respect.”

      “Dad!”

      “Hush, Greg.  It’s best to let people who understand these things take charge, so they’re done right.  Isn’t that true, Mrs. Turner, wasn’t it?”

      “Truer words were never spoken and I’ve spoken a lot of them to the vicar!”

      “And I suspect he cherishes every one, what with you being, very obviously, one of the village’s most capable residents.”

      “I… I don’t like to boast, but I do my part.”

      “I have no doubt.  Might you join us for drink?  My treat, of course.”

      “Oh… my, that’s very kind of you.  I do enjoy a spot of gin in the afternoon.”

The three death rattles from the younger men at the table was nicely camouflaged by the throat clearing and hailing of their server by the table’s oldest man, who had full intention of putting his investment to work for him.  Gain all the information he needed about this new relationship his son pointedly neglected to mention and gauge the village’s reaction to the direction that relationship might take.  _Would_ take if he and his wife had anything to say about it.  It had only been partially in jest they’d said, more than once, that the best person in the world for their Greg to marry would be Mycroft, and now… well, nothing like the present for putting some flesh to that jest.  Only one person ever had the constancy, compassion, trust and belief in their son to keep Greg’s sodding feet at least in the hedgerows next to the straight and narrow path and if that person now was considering making it a permanent thing, then all hands on deck making it happen.

That it would make Greg insane was just buttercream on a very tasty cake…

__________

      “I am _not_ talking to you.”

      “You sort of have to, son, or people will ask questions at the wedding about the massive rift in the groom’s… or bride’s… family and that’ll spawn all forms of gossip that it’s best to avoid when you’re a newlywed.”

Sherlock and John had raced back to the vicarage once their afternoon respite was over, leaving Greg and his father to continue their tour of the village, alone, something that made Sherlock and John very happy and put them squarely on Greg’s list of bastardy people he owed some vengeance to in the near future.  Needless to say, the person at the _top_ of that list was grinning like a loon and strolling along the cobbled walkway next to him.

      “Why on earth did you... you made us all sit there for an hour listening to Mrs. Turner’s paranoid communist fantasies and her personal plans for what amounts to being crowned queen of the village!”

      “Nice attempt to deflect from what’s really on your mind, Greg, but not good enough in any form or fashion.  Oh, but do remember to show Mycroft that map she made about space organization for the little fete you’re helping oversee so he doesn’t sound stupid when she quizzes him about it.  Poor form to let your husband look bad to a member of the public.”

      “Wrong.  We are not talking about that.”

      “According to you, we’re not talking about anything, so I’ll just talk to myself and let you overhear the important stuff.”

      “She’s a nutty old bird!  Has no idea what she’s talking about!”

      “I agree that first bit’s true, but… I think she knows exactly what she’s talking about with you and Mycroft.”

      “He’s my friend!”

      “Your mum’s my friend, so what’s your point?”

      “Not talking!”

      “Meaning you were hoping Mycroft would be the one to say something and now you’re cornered like the rat you are and, rather than just step up and admit things like a mature adult, you’re being little-punk-rat tetchy, showing me your bunny teeth and teeny claws hoping I’ll go away and leave you alone to gnaw at the sandwich you just pulled from someone’s rubbish.”

      “Funny.  That’s a lot of words to come out of your tiny brain.”

      “Like that?  Did a creative writing class at the library, which _is_ a lot better than our old one, though not as cozy, I have to say.”

      “No, you didn’t.”

      “Lil’ punk rat having trouble with basic understanding of words today?”

      “You don’t write.”

      “I admit it’s been awhile since I posted you a letter, but…”

      “Oh, look at you trying to be funny again.  You don’t write… things.”

      “Lots you don’t know, apparently.  Where’d all those bedtime stories come from when you were small?”

      “Books!”

      “My name’s not Books.”

      “What?”

      “Those were mine!  Always liked making up things, which is probably why you’re such a successful fucking liar, but that was one of the perks of my job – lots of time to scribble down thoughts and write little stories.  Your mum saw one of those adult-learning pamphlets and we each did something we liked.  Your mum did…”

      “Let me guess, cooking?”

      “Glass blowing.”

      “WHAT!”

      “She thought it sounded interesting and you know your mum… always looking at the glass and crystal things when we go have a look through the antique shops.  Bloke that taught the course has a studio or whatnot that he rents out to the public so they can use the equipment.  She’s made a few things so far and… they’re very artistic.”

      “Meaning they’re dreadful.”

      “No, meaning she didn’t try to make something like a bowl or vase.  Did more freeform stuff that… like I said, artistic.”

      “No… no, you’re having me on.  Neither of you ever did a creative thing in your lives!”

      “I can show you some of my old journals, if you really want to be proven evil and wrong.  And your mum had a lot of things she wanted to do, but we… well, it’s hard to be creative with paints or glass or whatnot if you have a family to feed and not a farthing left over when you’re done with that.  Now, though… she can spread her wings a bit, something you’d know, if you ever bothered to visit.”

      “I visit!”

      “Not as often as you did.  Getting harder to lie to me and your mum about your life?”

      “I…”

      “That means yes.”

      “Alright… maybe.  But you want to _know_ things, too, like if I’ve met someone and what I do and… things…”

      “You’ve met lots of people, for a night or two at most, and earn your wage through criminal activities.  Yeah, I can see where you’d think your mum and I might not be pleased with those answers.  But, not being pleased doesn’t last too long if the conversation is honest and also touches on what you might be doing to change that for the future.”

      “Yeah, well…”

      “Which you hadn’t particularly thought about until your arse landed in a fire and it gave you the chance to find Mycroft again.”

      “………………”

      “Good answer.  Will you, at least, admit that you and Mycroft are more than friends?”

      “I... fine.  I suppose we are.”

      “Suppose?”

      “Ok, no supposing.  He and I… I suspect we’ve always known something was there between us and…”

      “You finally admitted it.”

      “Basically.”

      “Good!  Oh, that’s brilliant news, son, just wonderful to hear.  Why didn’t you want to tell me?”

      “It… it wasn’t that I didn’t _want_ to tell you, more that I didn’t know how.  Or how you’d react.”

      “About the man part or the Mycroft part?”

      “Both, and the vicar part, too.”

      “That would seem the least troubling one out of that list.”

      “Maybe, if I wasn’t… me.”

      “What’s that mean?”

      “Me?  Shitty bastard Greg Lestrade.  Never been a good person, really, though you and Mum certainly tried to help me be that way.  And you _know_ Mycroft… you know he’s a good person.  Smart and with the most beautiful heart in the world… and then there’s me.”

      “Shut your fucking mouth right now, Greg.  If you’re trying to say you may not be good enough for Mycroft, then prepare for my shoe up your arse.”

      “That’s not… that’s not exactly what I’m trying to say.  It’s more… I don’t know.  Doesn’t it seem odd, somehow?”

      “Odd?  Hadn’t thought of it that way, but I suppose I can see where you might think that, what with you two being on what seems like two paths in life that couldn’t intersect even on a wager.  But, it’s _always_ been that way between you and you still were the best of friends when you were younger.  Never worried you then, why would it worry you now?”

      “I don’t know.  And I can’t say it worries me, I just… it was just part of the reason I wasn’t sure how to talk to you about it.  Lots of things swirling about and I had no good idea how to bring it all together so it made sense.”

      “Which is why you were probably hoping Mycroft would get the job.  Making sense of things and pulling together lots of stuff into one tidy package was more his strength than yours.”

      “Won’t deny that.  I was thinking him and me might tell you together, but definitely Mycroft should be there when it happened.  He usually knows what I want to say better than I do and doesn’t make me feel stupid when he takes up the interpreter’s job.”

      “Alright then, I won’t pass along to your mother that our dearest son hid this amazing news from his loving father and I had to hear it from one of the local hens, instead.  That can be our little secret.”

      “Thanks.  But… you’re ok with it?”

      “You and Mycroft?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Over the fucking moon!  Solid, stable, kind person who’s cared about you for your whole life and will treat you properly… and who has always been someone who you trusted, felt safe with and could draw down your frustrations and anger when life was a load of shit.  He was always good for you, Greg, and I don’t see that changing.  And you were good for him.  He needed your confidence, energy, willingness to take risks and do new things and, frankly, your being happy to use your fists when a spot of conversation wasn’t going to make a dent in the thick skulls of the bastards that were bothering him.  Now, you just have to make certain you hold it all together.  It’s work, you know, keeping a real relationship going, especially over the years.  Can’t take things for granted, or let problems simmer hoping they’ll go away on their own.  You willing to put in the work?”

      “Can I hire someone to do it for me?”

      “Sure, as long as you hire that person to keep Mycroft’s bed warm and share cozy winter nights with him on the sofa.”

      “Ugh… have to take the bad and the good both or it’s no deal?”

      “Now you’ve got it.  But, you can always reach out for a little help when you’re feeling over your head.  That’s what family’s for.  And me and your mum will happily stand in for Mycroft’s family, too.”

      “Isn’t that one of those conflict of interest things?”

      “You a solicitor?”

      “No.”

      “Then shut the fuck up, ignorant punk rat.”

      “I will not, because you like him more than me and you’ll take his side every time!”

      “Fine!  I’ll take your side and your mum will take his.  She’s his favorite, anyway, more than you or me combined.”

      “That’s true.  I had to beg to get my favorite biscuits, but she made his without a single complaint.”

      “Well, in fairness, his favorites didn’t involve nuts and chocolate which we couldn’t afford often.”

      “Forgot about that.  Him and his fucking vanilla biscuits.”

      “They were good, though.”

      “Yeah, can’t lie about that.  And with a spot of jam squished between two of them… I wonder if Mrs. Hudson can make vanilla biscuits?”

      “If you ask her that, implying she doesn’t know how, she’ll probably gut you like a fish and we’ll be eating your roasted arse for dinner instead of chicken.”

      “So, ask nicely if she’d be _willing_ to make them, since Mycroft used to love them so much?”

      “You’re learning.  Now, got somewhere to buy something nice for your mother?”

      “Ummm… probably.”

      “Then that’s our next bit of business.  And some flowers for your Mrs. Hudson for having to tolerate all us untidy and hungry men in her house.”

      “I hope you have money for all of that because I surely don’t.”

      “I’ll charge it and you can pay me later.”

      “Lovely.”

      “That I am.  Your mother tells me often.”

      “Poor old Mum needs specs.”

      “Oh, the price of her gift just soared.”

      “I’m not a rich man, you know.”

      “Just rob another bank; you’ll have loads of cash then.”

      “I never robbed a bank!”

      “Really?  Let’s talk about your poor life choices while we walk, shall we?”

__________

      “Oh… well, that was handily managed.”

Greg rolled his eyes at Mycroft, who had joined him for another of their post-dinner walks and seemed highly pleased that the knowing looks he’d gotten from Greg’s father over the dining table had a simple explanation.

      “That’s easy for you to say!  I’m the one who had to deal with Dad!”

      “Likely far more productively, for you both, than I would have managed.  I suspect your conversations brought a great deal of understanding, as well, that was greatly appreciated.”

      “Can’t say you’re wrong.  I was actually unsure about how to talk to Dad about any of this, but… it wasn’t as hard as I thought.”

      “Is your mind now at rest, my dear?”

      “I’d say so.  Mum won’t surprise me in a bad way when I talk to her about it, so… yeah, I’m happy.”

      “Then I share your happiness.  And the knowledge that your parents… well, that they accept me as someone who shall be part of your life.”

      “They’re happier that you’re sharing my life than _me_ sharing my life.”

      “An understandable viewpoint.”

      “Oh… you smug bastard.  Smug’s written all over you with in big, bold letters.”

      “Is it spelled correctly?  I cannot abide shoddy spelling, punctuation or grammar.”

      “Smug has two g’s right?”

      “Dear me… I have been marked by some cosmic illiterate.”

      “I find the bastard, I’ll break his fucking face.”

      “Hmmm… I did admire, secretly, I do admit, the ferocity of your fisticuffs in defense of my honor when we were younger.”

      “Oh, my Mycroft liked me fighting for him, huh?”

      “It was such a primal display.  And, if I am to be honest, there were times that I imagined you were fighting for me against some competitor.  Always emerging victorious, of course.”

      “I like that.  Can’t say that wasn’t somewhat true, too, because I… I never really thought about it before, but you were _my_ Mycroft, even then.  My friend, my confidant, my good thing in this world.  Bit proprietary of me, but it didn’t feel wrong.”

      “And I did not mind your attention in the slightest.  I still do not.”

Stopping to take Greg’s lips in a kiss, Mycroft nearly purred with satisfaction at being able to do this after so many years of having nothing to savor but his own fantasies.

      “Probably why Dad wasn’t as surprised by the news as I expected.  Thrilled, but not gobsmacked.”

      “Parents often have a different perspective that allows them to see us differently than we see ourselves.”

      “For good and for bad.”

      “Very true.  But, I am extremely gratified that his reaction was a positive one.  I have missed your parents, in truth, over the years.  There were times, when my soul was heavy, that I longed to simply pick up the phone and hear their voices.  Perhaps gain their guidance to ease the weight I was carrying.”

      “Why didn’t you?”

      “I suppose I felt it was no longer my place.  I… I had stepped away from both them and you and… I felt, to a degree, a sense of betrayal in that.  One does not seek a boon from a person one has betrayed.”

      “We never saw it like that.  Saw your leaving as a grand thing.  Sad, devastatingly so, at times, at least for me, but not one bit of regret about it.  You would have stagnated if you stayed, love.  Never gotten where you wanted to go and that _would_ have been betrayal.  We’d have been betraying _you_ and that was not going to happen.  Not to my Mycroft.  Not by anyone.  Even me.”

The adamant tilt to Greg’s chin was something Mycroft remembered well and adored with all his heart.  To the outside world, his Gregory had seemed a thuggish boy, only elevated from being a pure brute by his cleverness when planning and executing one of his criminal schemes.  However, in their inner world, that thuggishness mellowed to stalwart strength and his cleverness gained the thoughtfulness and humor that highlighted the true keenness of his mind.

      “A gift I shall never take for granted, especially since it, ultimately, awarded me you.”

      “I am a trophy anyone would be proud to own.”

      “That you are.  A trophy I greatly covet and shall do my best to protect from the savage hands in this world.”

      “Ooh… I like the sound of that.”

Especially with the fire igniting in Mycroft’s eyes that signaled very good things for one Mr. Greg Lestrade, trophy extraordinaire.

      “Interesting.  However, there are sounds I enjoy, as well, Gregory.”

      “Such as?”

      “Your voice when you are under the spell of the most exquisite physical pleasure.”

      “That’s a good one.  Too bad you’re not hearing it now, though.”

      “Your wickedness, Gregory…”

      “Excites you.”

      “That it does.”

Something Mycroft proved with a fiery kiss that hardened Greg’s cock and had him beginning to rut against Mycroft’s own trouser-covered erection until a firm, prolonged tug to his hair reminded him who was in charge tonight and, as a bonus, made his cock throb even more desperately than before.

      “I need you, Mycroft.  Here, now…”

      “And I shall always grant you what you need, my dear.  Come along.”

Mycroft gently wrapped his hand around the back of Greg’s neck and marched him towards a large, wide tree that was well off the lane and had one side that was well-shrouded in darkness.

      “Naked below the waist, Gregory.”

Greg’s fingers flew fast to obey and had his trousers and pants on the ground in an acceptably brief time, in Mycroft’s opinion, so some small attention to his lover’s erection could be paid as a reward, one that came in the form of long fingers reaching down to slowly stroke the hard flesh, so as not to prompt any premature end to their pleasure.

      “Your body has always fed my eyes most deliciously, my dear Gregory.  So strong and bold.  A more potent intoxicant I cannot imagine.”

This kiss held less flame, but more heat, and it filled Greg with a deep ache to take everything his Mycroft was willing to give.  Sex, affection, companionship… all of it.  He _did_ need this man and not a part of him didn’t know that very, very clearly.

      “Please, Mycroft…”

      “Of course, my love…”

Turning Greg and having him brace against the tree, Mycroft unfastened his own trousers and took position behind his lover, gently kissing Greg’s neck as he rubbed Greg’s glorious arse with his own pulsing erection.

      “Spread your legs a bit, Gregory.”

Quickly complying, Greg moaned as Mycroft stooped slightly and slid his cock in between Greg’s thighs.

      “I shall grant you your release, Gregory, but you must wait until I permit it.  Is that understood?”

      “Y… yes.”

      “Excellent.”

Mycroft began thrusting between Greg’s thighs, slowly at first to simply savor the feel of his body moving against his partner’s, then with greater force and moved his hand back to Greg’s cock, to do things with his fingers that Greg certainly didn’t think proper vicars were supposed to know.  Not that he cared, because he was seeing colors behind his closed eyes that didn’t exist in this reality.

      “Very good, my dear.  How beautifully your body obeys my wants.”

As the gentle kisses to the back of Greg’s neck morphed into tiny nips that sent bolts of pleasure directly to Greg’s cock, the voice Mycroft so dearly adored let the vicar know when every one of those bolts paid its visit.

      “So very, very good… just a little longer, Gregory.  What your body does to mine is indescribable…”

Thrusting harder, Mycroft felt his own orgasm beginning to rise and chose not to slow his pace to prolong matters, as a fast and fiery encounter held enormous appeal at the moment.

      “Prepare yourself, Gregory.  You will know your signal to release…”

Scarcely a dozen more thrusts followed before Mycroft’s body stiffened and his teeth latched hard into the flesh of Greg’s shoulder, at the base of the neck, and Greg’s shout of pleasure ushered in both their orgasms which continued through the initial, powerful waves of sexual energy and the long moments of softer trembling that finally drew their encounter to a close.

      “Mine… you are mine, Gregory, and I shan’t ever let you go.”

Greg slowly turned and took Mycroft in a kiss so tender what little solidity remained of each man’s bones nearly dissolved into a puddle of contentment.

      “I’m not letting you go, either.  We’ll fathom this out, Mycroft.  Get me square and then… we _will_ have our happily ever after.  I’m not going to let it go any other way.

      “My protector.”

      “Always.  And…”

The ‘and’ was followed by Greg’s ‘shit!’ and quick fumble to draw out his mobile from his trouser pocket, because the only person who could be calling him now was Anderson and that wasn’t a call he wanted to miss.  While Mycroft grinned at Greg’s awkward one-handed redressing, without the benefit of a proper clean-up that Mycroft’s own handkerchief made a simple matter for _him_ , Greg hmmm’d and swore and frowned until he finally ended the conversation with a ‘Yeah, tomorrow sounds good.’ and ended the call.

      “My dear?”

      “Expect more company.”

      “Constable Anderson?”

      “It’s his off day tomorrow and he’s got something to talk to me about.”

      “Is that… I have no idea if that bodes good or ill.”

      “It’ll be a good thing if what he says is true and that there’s some thawing in the opinions about me and that he’s got a good idea for making that thaw a complete melt.”

      “That sounds encouraging.”

      “I hope so.  He wants to talk in person so we can really pound out the details.  It’s not odd for him to leave London on his free days, so it won’t raise any suspicion.”

      “He is certainly welcome here, though I suspect your father will not be taking the morning train home once he learns of our upcoming visitor.”

      “Double shit!  You’re right.  Dad will want his stubby nose right in the thick of it.”

      “I hope he shall not be too disappointed to find that Constable Anderson is, shall we say… on the take.”

      “Really?”

      “Is that not the proper use of the term?”

      “No more telly for you.”

      “Then I did use it correctly.  Ever a good thing to know my command of crime vernacular is as impressive as ever.”

It was official… he loved this man.  Iron-fisted dominance in the bedroom and plush-bear adorableness in the sitting room.  Yeah, not letting Mycroft go in a hundred million years.  If Anderson really wasn’t bringing a good idea with him, his fucking head was going to roll.  There was important business to get sorted out and it wasn’t actually his stupid neck… it was his stupid everything and how it was going to make a life with the man standing in front of him, proudly smiling with his cock hanging out.

      “You could be one of those crime writers.  Now, want to do up your trousers so a bat doesn’t think _that’s_ a banana and tries to fly in and steal it?”

      “Oh… that was somewhat rude of me, I do apologize.  But, well done knowing bats are pollinators of banana plants.”

      “They are?”

      “I assumed that was the foundation of your jest.”

      “No.”

      “Oh… very well.  Let’s carry on, shall we?”

      “Another hour or so is fine with me.”

      “Whatever shall we do when the cold of winter arrives?”

      “We’ll think of something.  Probably ugly jumpers.”

      “Something Mrs. Hudson is most skilled in knitting.”

      “See?  Future’s looking bright already!”

Mycroft smirked and linked his arm with Greg’s, continuing their stroll and sending up a very sincere prayer that tomorrow’s conversation would bear more fruit than bananas.  God did prefer to help those who helped themselves, so help themselves they would.  And, if the Lord decided to muck in a bit for good measure, there was a certain love-struck vicar who would be profoundly grateful for the gesture.


	19. Chapter 19

      “That Constable Anderson’s bent?  Well… I can see it.”

Greg and Mycroft decided to extend their evening walk to the point Greg’s dad had likely gone to bed, to avoid further conversations on… anything… but breakfast came as it did every day and with its own opportunities for discourse.

      “What?  Dad, you love Philip, though I have no idea why.”

      “He gets things done!  Those little bastards kicking over rubbish bins… he sent them on their merry way, didn’t he?  And found the tosser who stole Mrs. Tandy’s flowerpots.  Admittedly, it wasn’t too hard, since it was her husband, who’d actually tripped and broke them, so he blamed it all on a thief, once he hid the evidence, but Philip got him to confess!  And take his wife shopping to get new pots and pansies.  He’s a good lad, but he’s got that look in his eye, sort of like you, what says he’ll walk the shady path if it gets him where he’s going faster.  Probably why you two are friends.”

And, to think, Greg had been worried his father wouldn’t have an easy time accepting the reality of his son’s life.

      “I’m sure he’ll be happy to know you always thought he had criminal tendencies.”

      “Most people do, Greg.  It’s whether or not they act on them that makes the difference.”

Something that had Mycroft nodding in agreement, reminding Greg that he how faced a war on two fronts about his future.  Maybe war was a harsh term, though, since both his parents and his lover would be the kindest, most compassionate opponents imaginable.  He’d have to be on the lookout for sneak attacks and strategy sessions between to plan joint campaigns.

      “Very philosophical of you.  Oh, and look who finally decided to join us.  I’d say it was the Sleeping Beauties, but you’re both ugly as fuck.”

John’s answer was a rude gesture and Sherlock’s was a diatribe on the aesthetic flaws of Greg’s face, which lasted until Mrs. Hudson brought out their plates and smacked Sherlock’s curls with a spoon to remind him about table etiquette.

      “I am both insulted and assaulted before breakfast.  You wonder why, Mycroft, I refuse your invitations to visit.”

      “You refuse, brother, because your more disagreeable behaviors are reigned in and you rail against the mandate to conduct yourself in a respectable manner.”

      “Insults _and_ assaults. My safety is imperiled and I have grown terrified of teaspoons, so often have I been beaten with them by your aged housekeeper.”

      “How about, lad, you and me hide from the teaspoon truncheons and do a bit of good before Greg’s friend Anderson pays his respects?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Greg’s father, and everyone at the table prepared for the virtriolic refusal.

      “What does that mean?”

The vitriol was running weak today, apparently.

      “You helped Greg there with the roof, didn’t you?”

      “And bear the scars and bruises from his incompetence.”

      “Well, I’ll agree with the incompetent part, since I had a look at that and… you and me will fix it up properly and earn a nice bit of something from Mrs. Hudson for our hard, skilled labor.”

      “What?  Dad… you are the last person in the world to have a clue about fixing a roof.”

      “Untrue.”

      “Very true.  You never fixed a thing in your life!”

      “Pfft.  I did the maintenance work at the scrapheap, too, for a bit extra in my wages and… a mate of mine worked for a builder and gave me work when I had a need, such as paying for something my fucking son stole or destroyed.  At Christmas, too, and when we had an unexpected expense, but I can credit you, Greg Lestrade, and your being a little arsehole, for me gaining a respectable portfolio of skills to do this and that for the house.”

Greg’s wince was an honest one and Mycroft gave his knee a squeeze under the table.  Both of them remembered well hearing a knock at the Lestrade’s door, then listening in on an angry voice describing Greg’s latest crimes and how much would be the cost of making things right.  It was a large part of the reason, Mycroft suspected, that his dear Gregory made certain to give his parents a comfortable retirement where they could enjoy their lives without persistent worry about money.

      “Oh.  I… I actually never knew exactly where you and Mum got the funds to pay for all that.”

      “Thought it came from the sky, did you?  Or Father Christmas dropped it in our stockings?”

      “No, but…I suppose I didn’t pay much attention.”

      “Yeah, well… it’s not a kid’s job to pay attention to things like that.  It _was_ your job to pay attention to our telling you not to be a fucking criminal, so that _is_ on you, but… adopt some kids of your own and you’ll understand.”

Greg’s frantically-waving hands were returned by his father who was happy to waft the denial back across the table.

      “No!  No sprogs for me, thank you very much.”

      “Oh, you poor stupid bastard.  Well, you’ll learn soon enough that you don’t make proclamations like that when your Mycroft is sitting next to you wearing that look.”

Greg cut his eyes over and understood quickly the meaning of _that look_.  He’d seen it on his mother’s face now and again when his dad said something about doing this or not doing that and hadn’t talked to her about it first.

      “Ummm… I mean… any sprogs in my life would only come after long and careful deliberation with the person I chose to spend my life with, because it’s their decision as much as it is mine.”

Mycroft’s tiny ‘that’s better’ nod made Greg grin in triumph and John wonder if Sherlock was taking any notes.

      “Very wise, son, very wise.  So, Sherlock and me will tidy up the roof and have it all done before our crooked copper stops in to pay a visit.  I’ll phone Katie, too, and tell her not to expect me until tomorrow, at least.  She’ll be happy; more time to have her lady friends over for wine and talk about whatever filthy novel they’re reading at the moment.  Come on, Sherlock, let’s get started.”

      “I refuse to go on the roof!”

      “I’ll show you how to tie off so you don’t slip.”

      “I…”

      “And Greg’s going to put on a pretty pinny and help Mrs. Hudson bake our thank you treats, which will be plentiful and scrumptious.”

      “That is acceptable.”

      “DAD!”

Sherlock rose from the table, taking the last slice of his toast with him and smiled smugly at Greg, who had been sold into human slavery for his benefit, something Sherlock found exceedingly right and proper for the ridiculous criminal.

      “Ah.  Now that has been sorted, I would ask, John, if you had a bit of time for our own conversation?  It is rare that I have a chance to gain information on Sherlock’s life in London and I would capitalize upon that chance, if you are amenable.”

John knew full well the excuse was for Greg’s benefit and that Mycroft really wanted to focus on other matters, matters relating to _him_ , but it was the consideration in that small gesture that made the idea of talking to Mycroft something that didn’t seem as disturbing as talking to some random therapist in London.

      “I’m always ready to sell out Sherlock’s secrets for the right price.”

      “A portion of the day’s baking, and free access to my whisky this evening while Gregory and I enjoy our stroll?”

      “My price has been met.  Your study?”

At Mycroft’s nod, John took his own leave from the table and Mycroft smiled gently at the thought of making a start on healing John’s fractured soul.  It would not be a swift process, but he was confident he could do _something_ to help and something was surely better than nothing.

      “And you, my dear?”

      “I thought I was modeling a pinny.”

      “The very idea of that…”

      “Is something you like.”

      “True.  More still, if you were naked while wearing it.”

      “With my firm arse peeking out the back.  Perfectly positioned for a bit of a smack if I said something cheeky.”

Oh, if you could see your eyes right now, Mycroft Holmes.  You’re already picturing me in a pretty apron, bent over your knee, getting a good spanking for being a naughty boy.  I am the luckiest man in the world.

      “How wicked you are, Gregory.”

      “When does Mrs. Hudson have a night off?”

      “As soon as humanly possible.”

      “Looks like we’ve got plans for that night, then.  Well, best be off too look through her collection of kitchen apparel and see if anything fits.  Or if I have to shop for something lovely myself.”

With the sound of an excited intake of breath hissing through Mycroft’s teeth accompanying his grand exit, Greg smiled widely and rededicated himself to today’s chat with Anderson.  His arse wouldn’t be much good for spanking if it was being served up on a plate as repayment for what people believed was him doing dirty deals.  But, if anyone could pull together whatever Anderson had in his head, it was Mycroft, so there certainly was hope today would be a good one.  It needed to be.  It was beyond time to draw this fuckery to a close and get on with his life.  Especially since he, now, _had_ a life to get on with…

__________

      “There, just like that.  Nicely done, lad!”

      “This is torture.”

      “Your torture is giving results, though.  I’d say you and Greg made a decent start, but it’s hard to do this sort of thing right if you don’t actually know what you’re doing.  We’ll see it mended, though, don’t worry about a thing.”

      “I do not care, in the slightest, because I will never do this again.”

      “Now, now, you never know.  One day you might have a little house of your own and when you learn how much it costs to bring a chap out to do this sort of thing, you’ll be happy that you’re able to do it yourself.”

      “John can do it.”

      “Oh… so you plan on sharing that little house with John, do you?”

      “I…”

      “You two living together now?”

      “No.  I… I cannot claim a steady income and that, apparently, is somewhat important when one seeks to rent a place to live.”

      “Something I can attest to, yes.  Need a job, do you?  Lots do, in this day and age.  I know a few people, lad, if you want me to ask about.”

      “I would rather hang by my neck from a tree limb.”

      “Oh, looking to be one of them performance artists, are you?  You’re on your own there, I’m afraid, because I don’t know a soul in the theater.  Katie might, she’s got an artistic streak, so I’ll see what I can do.  Until then, though…”

      “I am not going to toil my life away in a menial position like a… common person.  Besides, I should likely inform you that your disreputable son has already offered to find employment for me.”

      “Legal employment?”

      “The legality of it is irrelevant.”

      “It is and the least reason is that you can’t put ‘criminal’ on the application to rent a flat.”

      “Then how did Lestrade obtain a residence?”

      “Probably shagged the landlady.”

      “Yes, that would not surprise me.”

      “No more of that for him, though!  Got himself your brother to warm his bed and I suspect that’s going to be a ‘got’ that’s going to last until they’re old gents.”

Sherlock’s shudder was precisely what one would expect from a baby brother hearing anything about his older sibling’s love life.

      “Disgusting.”

      “Nah, just a long time in coming.  You probably don’t remember it well, but those two… made for each other.  What’s that thing, ummm… oh yeah!  Yin to the other’s Yang.  I’m delighted, truth be told.”

      “If their unholy union assists in keeping Mycroft’s fat nose out of my affairs, then I will not strenuously object, however, I refuse here and now to be part of any ceremony where I am forced to stand at Mycroft’s side and hand him a tissue when he begins weeping.”

      “I will personally make sure you’re not on tissue duty.  But you _will_ have your skinny arse in a nice suit to be part of the wedding, if that’s what those two want.  I imagine it _will_ be, what with Mycroft being a vicar and all.  Even a more liberal one like him would have a hard time, I suspect, warding off the village’s glares if he just lived in sin with Greg.  Especially, given Greg is fairly obviously a lorry-load of sin made into a person.”

      “True.  And… Mycroft would want a marriage, or whatever is the closest facsimile the law allows for their situation.  That would be important to him.”

      “I agree. But, how about you, Sherlock?  Hoping to go that path with your John?”

      “Ugh.”

      “That a ‘no’ ugh or a ‘leave it alone, old duffer’ ugh.”

      “The latter.”

      “Fair.  A man’s business is his own.  But… you know you can talk to me and Katie about things like that, don’t you, Sherlock?  It’s been a long, long time, but we never closed our door to you.”

      “No, you merely were arrested for kidnapping.”

Sherlock’s dark scowl pained the older man’s heart as neither of them had good memories of that day.  Poor boy… away at a school where him being smarter than the others, and different, to boot, was a recipe for ugly things.  All of which Sherlock was too young to bear without parents to talk to about it, which was pointedly lacking in the young boy’s life.

      “Not arrested, actually.  Just taken into custody for a little chat with the local lads about what you were doing in our flat when you were supposed to be at school.  It got sorted out.”

      “Because they realized the Mummy was an hysteric.”

      “Because they understood that boys do a runner from school or home now and again and need a bit of care and patience to convince them to go back without there being a huge row and the whole business happening again.  They had boys at home; knew the story.  But, yeah… your mum’s screeching at them certainly didn’t hurt.”

The scowl on Sherlock’s face softened and he did his best to avoid making eye contact when he again spoke.

      “I… I was sorry that happened to you.”

      “I know you were, Sherlock.  We were just glad you came to us when you were upset.  And you had reason to be, from what you told us.  Miserable bullies it was you had to deal with and it broke our hearts to hear about it.  I did phone your headmaster and had a long chat about what a good solicitor could do with evidence that the boys in his charge weren’t being treated properly.  I just wish… you’d have let us know how you were doing once you went back.”

Because the headmaster, though he’d taken the warning seriously, wouldn’t provide any information on little Sherlock any other time they’d phoned to check.

      “I did not want you to see further trouble because of me.”

      “It would have been worth it.  Still would be!  I can tell you now that the wife’s heart would grow ten sizes if you stopped in for a chat.  And bring your John with you!  Anytime, Sherlock… we’d love to have you in as often as you like.”

      “Perhaps.”

      “Meaning yes, you’ll stop in sooner than later, but don’t want me to give you a big, embarrassing hug when you say it.”

      “Given your bulk, this flimsy piece of twine you put around my waist will be utterly insufficient to prevent me being knocked onto the ground once again.”

      “You and Greg… neither of you appreciate a voluptuous figure.”

      “Not as much as you appreciate a cream bun.”

      “Oh, remember those you and me snuck from Carter’s bakery when we helped him load those bags of flour?”

      “They were… acceptable.”

      “What a cute little thing you were with cream smeared on your face.  We’ll see if anyone in the village makes those and it’ll be my treat, what say?”

      “I find no flaw with that suggestion.”

      “We’ll get on that today, after we’ve got the roof mended and we find out what Anderson’s got to say about Greg’s situation.”

      “If that is the case, then Lestrade should pay, since we are remediating his incompetence at home repair, as well as properly conduct his criminal business.”

      “You’re right!  Fucking bastard owes us for all of that and I’ll see he pays ever cent of that delicious debt.  Now, you ready to finish this?”

      “If it will hasten the end of this agony, then yes.”

      “Hastening will occur, though if you hammer your thumb flat, the agony will continue, so pay attention.”

      “My hand-eye coordination is without compare.”

      “Tell that to the extra hole we had to fix because you put a hammer through a weak patch, though you admirably missed your thumb.”

      “There… there was an insect and I worried it might… be problematic.”

      “Was it carrying a knife or something?”

      “I am no longer listening to you.”

      “Makes you one of the majority.  Luckily, I adore the sound of my own voice.”

      “And cream buns.”

      “Definitely.”


	20. Chapter 20

Anderson had hoped that after his walk from the train station, he wouldn’t find vicarage empty so he had to sit outside like a berk and wait, but he hadn’t expected Greg, Mycroft in full vicar mode, surly Sherlock, grinning John and… oh no.

      “There’s the bastard.  Haven’t I learned a lot about you, you miserable git.  Nearly as miserable as my own son, and that’s saying a lot!”

Mr. Lestrade.  Shit.

      “Oh… hello, sir.  Just thought I’d stop by for a visit and… fuck me, you already know, don’t you?”

      “Have a seat, you crooked copper and let’s hear what shady business you’ve got going on.”

Anderson found his way to the sitting room’s empty chair and tried not to acknowledge the feeling in his stomach that was far too much like getting caught by his dad stealing money from the family’s biscuit-barrel bank when he was six years old to buy sweets.

      “Dad, why don’t you go and see if Mrs. Hudson has something for Anderson to drink to take the dust out of his mouth and have a few yourself, while you’re at it.”

The rude-gesture war was fierce, but ended in a disappointing draw that had the elder Lestrade giving Greg an evil eye while he toddled off to charm the housekeeper into providing beverages.

      “You could have warned me your dad was here, Greg.”

      “So you’d huddle and hide in London, you arsehole?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Fair enough, but this is important, since it’s _my_ arsehole that’ll meet with horse-cock-sized dildo if I can’t square things.”

      “Gregory… really.”

      “Sorry, love.  And you can stop grinning right now, Philip Anderson, you cocksucking twat.”

      “GREGORY”

      “I… sorry again, Mycroft.  Falling right back into my foul-mouthed ways.  That’s what this bloke does to me.”

Mycroft’s displeased eyes just made John grin harder, because part of the fun of this visit was watching Greg Lestrade squirm like a worm on a hook from his dad being here.  _And_ Sherlock squirm like a worm on a hook with Mr. Lestrade being here.  There was a lot of squirming going on, so he didn’t feel too bad doing his own bit during his chat with Mycroft.  The man was… if he was forced to admit it, Mycroft was good at what he did, but he certainly didn’t shy away from areas that had been shielded from prodding for a long, long time.  Which was definitely for the best, he somehow knew that was true, but, for now, the squirming was real and… squirmy.

      “Tell me, Greg, you useless bugger, do they make vicars’ wives wear a special frock for Sunday services or can you choose the one that best complements your new hat and shoes?”

      “Oh you fucker…”

Mycroft grabbed Greg’s sleeve, pulled him back down in his chair and fixed the unrepentant Anderson with a steely glare.

      “I surmise this is your revenge for Gregory failing to inform you of his father’s presence, however, it is now come to an end and we _shall_ turn this conversation towards a more productive direction.”

Anderson hated that he sat up straighter in his chair and nodded with a purely instinctive, or conditioned, response to the tone he very much remembered from his primary school teachers.

      “Sorry, Mycroft.  And I didn’t come empty-handed, so I’ll earn… what looks like a nice lemonade coming my way.  Oh, and biscuits.”

Piled high on a large tray carried by the person who’d already eaten a few in the kitchen as a benevolent act of quality control.

      “When a Lestrade uses his charm, one should expect wonders.  Here you go, lads.  I’m going to suspect nothing’s been accomplished since I stepped out of the room, so I doubt I missed anything important.”

      “Me, too.”

Mrs. Hudson marched into the sitting room, carrying a chair from the dining room and sat down next to Sherlock, so she was a full participant in this conversation.

      “Mrs. Hudson…”

      “Don’t even try to keep me out of this, Mr. Holmes, or I’ll box your ears.  This concerns that one there, so it concerns you, so it concerns me.  Now, get on with it.”

Knowing there was no possible chance of changing his housekeeper’s mind, Mycroft sighed and simply motioned everyone to take their refreshments and, when that was done, nodded towards Anderson to set his tale in motion.

      “Alright, performing for a full house, it seems.  Anyway, Greg, you remember Donny Palmer, right?”

Greg snorted a laugh and John grinned, which irritated Sherlock since he was out of the loop.

      “John!  How can you know someone I do not?”

      “Because we are not actually the same person, so I might be found, on any given day, in places you aren’t and talking to people not currently talking to you.”

Sherlock’s scowl was waved off by the doctor who knew, with extreme certainty, that Sherlock would withstand about ten seconds with the talkative and fidgety Donny Palmer before wanting to murder the petty thief and everyone else in a 15-block radius.  Something Anderson knew, too, which was why he suddenly had a great desire to toss both of their arses in a cell overnight and watch the fun.  That, however, was entertainment for another day.

      “If that lesson is over and done with… like I was saying, I nabbed Donny’s skinny arse yet again, but this time it was for burgling Vince Rand’s jewelry shop.”

Greg’s sucked in breath earned him a puzzled look from Mycroft and his father, so he took the moment to explain.

      “Vincent Rand, shall we say, is friendly with quite an assortment of shadowy people who would be very displeased to find out their mate’s shop had been burgled.”

      “Gregory!  Are you saying this gentleman is… connected?”

Could his Mycroft be more loveable?  No, it simply wasn’t possible.

      “That’s one way of saying it, yes.  I’m surprised Dodgy Donny was stupid enough to hit Vince’s place, though.  I mean, he’s not the sharpest man alive, but he’s usually got a bit of self-preservation keeping him from doing something _completely_ stupid.”

      “Normally, you’d be right, but our man Vincent just got in a load of emeralds and…”

      “Donny does love his emeralds.”

      “Loves them more than his mother, I suspect.  Needless to say, it was too much temptation for his larcenous self.  He thought he could slide in and back out with nobody the wiser, but forgot that the local constables keep watchful eyes on things like propped windows, especially for a jewelry shop.”

      “Rand never got his alarm fixed?”

      “He’s in a fight with the alarm company and his insurance because he thinks one of them should pay for it since it failed on its own and there should be some warranty or not-his-fault clause to keep him from having to cover the cost.”

      “He is a tightfisted bastard, that’s for certain.  Negotiating with him is something you don’t do unless you have a lot of time and your own reputation for nastiness.”

      “Donny thought this was his golden chance to shower himself in his precious emeralds and, in a completely unsurprising turn of events, botched it like a champion.  I ust waited for him outside the building and grabbed his collar when he set foot on the ground.”

      “Good for you, but I have to say, I don’t see how that’s going to help me.”

      “That’s because you didn’t have a bit of information in your pocket that I had.”

      “Do tell.”

      “Let’s just say, I’m now in possession of Ginger George’s ultra-secret stash location.”

Greg sat straight up and fixed Anderson’s smirking face with a steely glare of his own.

      “Impossible.  Nobody knows where George stores his shit but George.”

      “You think small, Greg.  Very, very small.  Someone had to sell him the space or build it and that someone probably had friends or relatives that might hear something when that someone got pissed out of their mind on very cheap vodka.”

      “And is our darling Donny the person who might have done the hearing?”

      “I do believe he was.”

      “Gregory, might I ask who is this George?”

Greg kept his eyes on Anderson for a few more moments, then turned to Mycroft to respond.

      “George is a rough piece of work who does big jobs.  And, by big, I mean he’ll have one of those massive lorries at the site that his lads fill and he drives off to hide the stuff before he sells it.  Specializes in warehouse theft.  We suspect he’s got contacts among the lorry drivers who tip him off when they’re making a delivery of something very profitable and his people plan the job.  They’re fast, clean and very good.  But, with scores that large, it’s tempting for others to want to turn about and do a bit of snatching of their own and that’s led to… unpleasantness.  Now, George has somewhere he keeps his warehouse of goods until he can shift them, usually to someone else’s warehouse or a cargo ship.”

      “Oh… not a gentleman of whom I would like to make an acquaintance.”

      “No, you wouldn’t.  How’s this useful to me, though, Anderson?  I’m still not seeing the angle.”

      “George is going on holiday.”

      “Good for him.”

      “So he won’t know if someone borrowed his recent load of computer parts for their own purposes.”

Greg hmmm’d softly, while the rest of the group made what they might of Anderson’s words.  What John made of them wasn’t happy.

      “Not to be the word of caution here, but, I tend to a fellow who _did_ cross George, years ago, and he’s still suffering unhappy health effects because of it.  I’m not sure what Anderson’s proposing, but I wouldn’t leap into anything rashly.”

      “Gregory, I am becoming most concerned.”

Greg lay a hand on Mycroft’s knee and gave it a squeeze.

      “We haven’t done anything yet, love.  Just talking.  Nothing but talking.  What’s your plan, mate?”

Anderson suffered Mycroft’s suspicious look, but since they had only one idea, he wasn’t going to let a disgruntled vicar to veto things before they even got started.

      “Borrow maybe half of what George stole, which is still a healthy load to want to offer to an interested buyer.  Like Sid or Pete or any of the others who have a taste for that sort of thing.  However, a seller that was especially eager might opt for a quicker sale, at a reduced price.  Something our mate Dimmock seems to have grown his own taste for arranging, especially if the seller is notably anxious to move their goods and won’t likely go back to the others and rat out the person looking to pull the rug out from under them.”

The light was beginning to dawn in Greg’s mind and he had to admit it was shiny light, indeed.

      “We have someone act as the seller, who’ll take Dimmock’s side deal, then let the location of that payoff be known so anyone who might want proof they’re being cheated will have it handed to them on a silver platter.”

      “The ones Dimmock’s been chummy with won’t protect him, either.  They’ll trade his neck for theirs faster than spicy food goes through your gut.”

      “Which is fast.”

      “Very, to the great misfortune of my nose.”

      “That’s not bad.  The plan I mean, not you being a fucking misery to the world at large.”

      “I thought so.  I mean, it’s not exactly an easy plan and we’ll need to bring in someone who can drive a lorry to move the goods out of the warehouse, which…”

      “That’ll be me.”

Greg choked at his father’s voice, which was neither worse nor better than the shocked looks on everyone else’s faces, the exception being Mrs. Hudson, whose face simply showed her approval at a father stepping up to help his son.  No matter how rotten that son might be.

      “Dad!”

      “What?  I know how to drive a lorry. And I’ve more than a few mates who have one they’d lend me for a night.”

      “I am _not_ involving you in this!”

      “You already have!  Half my DNA is in that body of yours and it’s an accessory to every single one of your heinous crimes.”

      “That’s ridiculous.”

      “I’s my logic, so fuck off if you don’t like it.  Anderson here will let me know what size lorry I need and I’ll make the arrangements.  Besides, you know you can trust me, something you can’t count on right now, it seems, for anyone else in London.”

      “Mum will kill you.  Then me!  Then you, again, just out of spite.”

      “I’ve lived a good life; death holds no fear for me.”

      “Oh my god…”

Deciding it was time to distract his partner from domestic dynamics, Mycroft cleared his throat and drew Greg’s attention in his direction.

      “My dear, perhaps we should table the notion of your father joining your criminal gang for a moment and…”

      “I’m not in a gang!”

      “Of course not.  However, I would suggest we consider if this is prudent plan, at all.  The risk, Gregory… there is much that could go staggeringly awry and bring to you a great deal of harm.”

      “It’s the only idea we have, Mycroft.  I’d rather try and suffer the awry than not try and suffer worse later on.”

      “Which is why, son, having me as part of your gang is a brilliant idea!  I’m smarter than you are, though just as handsome, and bring my own unique charm to a situation.  Alright then, we’ve got the lorry driver sorted, now we’ll need the thieves, which I assume is the rest of this raggedy lot…”

Sherlock’s loud and hand-wavy protest was for being called raggedy and John’s was for being dragged into a theft when that would certainly eliminate any chance of ever getting back his medical license, if he was caught.

      “Settle yourself, lads, plenty of good jobs to go around in Greg’s gang.”

      “Dad!  It’s not… fine, fuck it.  It’s a gang.”

      “Always embrace the truth, Greg.  Set’s you free, don’t you know?  Now, who do you have in mind, Anderson, for the seller.  You?”

Anderson snapped out of the blissful joy of watching Greg getting slaughtered by his father and shook his head in a forceful ‘no’ motion.

      “Everyone knows me.”

      “Right.  You’re crooked as Greg, here.  My mistake.  We’ll need someone we can trust, though.”

      “I’ll do it!  Me!”

Mrs. Hudson’s gleeful waving and large smile made Mycroft groan loudly and hold the bridge of his nose, especially given Greg’s dad’s equally large smile and rubbing together of his hands.

      “That’s the ticket!”

Now it was Greg groaning loudly and Anderson took some small pity on his friend, if only because the housekeeper here made amazing biscuits and getting knifed during a soured transaction wasn’t fair payment for that. 

      “I don’t think that’s a good idea, ma’am.”

      “Why not?  I’m just as capable as any of you.  More, actually, since I’ve had a lot more years to hone my capability.”

Mycroft’s huff of ‘dear God, why me’ was supplemented with a gesture towards his lover to handle the situation while he slowly died in his seat.

      “We know you are, Mrs. Hudson, but, there aren’t a lot of women in our game.”

      “That’s sexist!”

      “I… true, but that doesn’t change the facts that a woman trying to broker a deal this large is going to raise suspicion and that’s not something we can afford now.  If it helps, though, I think you’d make a cracking crime boss.”

      “Well, thank you for that.  I’m still going to help, though, however I can.”

      “I promise we’ll find something important for you to do.  Now… I know a couple of blokes I can probably count on to set this up, for the right price, and…”

      “I will do it.”

All eyes turned towards the vicar, sitting there with his clerical collar looking crisp and white while the person wearing it was volunteering to sell stolen goods.

      “No, love, you will not.”

      “Yes, Gregory, I will.  Your father quite rightly pointed out that trust is an issue of prominence for this situation and someone you have to pay and hope they are worthy of trust is utterly unacceptable.  As I assume Sherlock and John are known quantities and, therefore, unusable for this purpose, we are left with a single option.  Me.”

The chorus of grumbles and mutters was not nearly as loud as Greg expected or found proper for his Mycroft wanting to muck in with something dangerous.

      “This isn’t a school play, Mycroft.  There are going to be people there who are nasty, not terribly worried about the health and well-being of other people and liable to do something violent if they’re unhappily surprised.  I’m not dropping you into the center of that.”

      “As I understood it, the role I would play would be to pretend to have items for sale, negotiate two deals and, it seems, be present for the trade of goods for payment.  I only see a risk element for the latter and surely that is not as dire as you believe, given you anticipate the focus will not be on me, but on the parties who had vied for my business.”

      “Which you would have promised one of them and gone behind their back to the other!”

      “I shall make it plain in the original negotiation that any agreement is predicated on my not being presented with a more appealing offer.”

      “That might work for some bloke in the financial district, but not these head breakers!”

      “Given I suspect you plan to be present, though out of sight, I have little doubt you will step in should the situation become dangerous for me.”

      “I… well, yes, I _will_ be there to keep an eye on things, but…”

      “I will, too.”

Mycroft smiled at John who already sported a look that said he was more than ready for any trouble that might come his way.

      “Thank you, John.  That is most reassuring.”

      “I would rather drink lye than witness your ridiculous pantomime, however, John will surely henpeck me mercilessly if I refuse to participate, so I will be present, though only in the capacity of laughing at your inevitable humiliation due to your lackluster acting talent.”

Which, in Sherlock-language, meant he would be there because he was not content to leave his brother in a situation where a highly-observant set of eyes would be extremely useful.

      “If I can, I’ll stand in the wings, too, though I can’t guarantee anything.  I’m happy to see that fucker Dimmock get his just deserts, but I also need to keep my job and the various bits of goodwill I’ve banked with the people who will likely be the co-stars of this little play.”

      “Perfectly understandable, Constable Anderson, and I appreciate that you are willing, if able, to throw your support to our cause.”

Seeing Mrs. Hudson readying a proclamation, Mycroft dove in to hurl his body in her proverbial path.

      “Whereas I have no doubt concerning your dedication to our cause, Mrs. Hudson, we will have to consider carefully where best to place that support so that it is of maximum benefit.  Your hip does pester you, at times, so a fleet-footed getaway might be somewhat of a problem here, should the need arise.”

      “Bother.  I want to watch you be George Raft.”

      “Oh, very good.  I will watch several of his films to prepare for my role.”

Greg’s thunderous exasperation was battling his adoration of the most special man in creation because his Mycroft was absolutely serious about his film festival and that was… how cute could he be?  It defied description!

      “And I have no doubt Mrs. Hudson will help you choose the perfect ones to properly get into character.  I’m not thrilled about this, Mycroft, but if I can’t change your mind…”

      “You cannot.”

      “Then I’ll have to get behind your decision and… well, we’ll need to start laying out some details.  Everyone best get comfortable; this could take awhile.”

As the room’s energy shifted, now that there was a plan on the table, Mrs. Hudson decided to put something heartier than biscuits in the various stomachs and headed to the kitchen to make a start on an early lunch.  Her boys had their hands full and full hands worked best when the stomach was full, too.  In any case, they were more likely to talk plain and straight with her out of the room, which would be important for something like this.

Fortunately, though, for her, sound bounced about very well along these old walls and into the kitchen, making it the perfect place to keep an ear on the conversation.  And, she suspected, the more ears, and eyes, involved in the planning the better.  Her Mr. Holmes’s happiness was on the line and she’d make certain that whatever they drew up, it would be the best plan possible.  Best chance of success, best chance of pulling that raggedy Greg Lestrade’s arse out of the fire and best chance of giving her vicar the love he deserved.  The fact that it would also be a great deal of fun for her was completely beside point…


	21. Chapter 21

Greg lay in Mycroft’s arms and wished his lover could actually rest.  Every breath, every motion was threaded with a worry that did a marvelous job of keeping sleep at bay.

      “Want me to get you some port or something, love?”

      “Hmmm?  No, but I thank you for making the offer.  I apologize, though, if I have been disturbing your rest.”

      “I wouldn’t have gotten much anyway.  Lots on the mind… same for you, I expect.”

      “That is a fair statement.  I am terribly worried for you, Gregory, especially given the nature of Constable Anderson’s plan.”

Which, fortunately, Mycroft hadn’t voiced very forcefully while they did what they could to work through the details and foreseeable problems, then sent Anderson, along with Greg’s father, back to London on the last train of the day.  Right now, any plan was better than no plan and the one person who could derail their proverbial train was the person keeping Greg warm and cozy in bed. 

      “I admit I was happier about it before you got involved, but I do think it’s manageable and has a good chance of working.  I really wish you’d change your mind, though, Mycroft.  I can get someone to work on this with me and not involve you in the slightest.”

      “Were this an issue of lesser importance, I would likely agree, however… I cannot entrust your fate to other hands, Gregory.  I simply cannot.”

There were too many years between them where his dear Gregory had foundered in this world, with no rope thrown to save him from the legion of troubles into which he so easily plunged.  That situation was one Mycroft vowed never to see happen again.

      “I don’t want to entrust your fate to other hands either, Mycroft, but I won’t be in control of this.  All I can do is react and there is no way to guarantee I can react fast enough if things take a turn for the disastrous.”

      “I have faith, my dear, both in you and the Lord.”

      “I suspect he’s not too happy you’re mucking in, though.”

      “On the contrary, he asks of us the help we can provide to others.”

      “I don’t think that includes doing shady deals for stolen goods.”

      “Given you are only borrowing the so-called goods and the persons seeking to buy them could benefit from a lesson about the wages of sin, I believe he will look upon my efforts with a beneficent eye.”

Greg shook his head slightly and marveled at how such a good and pious man could twist the morality of this scenario to make it tidily fit into his mental box of things that were sanctioned by his beloved man in the sky.  But, having a clever mind and a touch of moral fluidity probably came in very handy when you had to wrangle a village filled all sorts of eager sinners, the likes of which friendly, placid villages were known to filled to the brim with.

      “Well, if you’re wrong, when I get cast into hell, at least have someone to talk to.”

      “It is my sincere hope that we can prevent your receiving that fate when your days are done.”

      “Evil sinner like me… you have a lot of work in store for you.”

      “Oh, I am fully prepared for the ongoing and oft-times Sisyphean struggle that lies ahead, but I embrace the challenge wholeheartedly.”

Which Greg had to admit, Mycroft always had.  Never turned away from him, never gave up, never backed down from his side of the line even when they had one of their rare fights, which had them nose to nose yelling at each other until they were hoarse and exhausted from the effort.

      “And I’m a lucky man for it.  In any case, we can start on your horrible challenge as soon as we know I’m not likely to see my neck broken by some thug who pops out from behind a tree one dark and stormy night and drags my body back to London as proof of a job well done.  On a positive note, though, at least Ginger Georgie not’s going on holiday for a bit, so we have time to work out the bugs and kinks in our plans.  Of course, there will be a fuckload more that we _can’t_ predict, but… that’s the way these things always work.  Especially with my ‘gang’ involved.”

      “I am wondering, now, if ‘mob’ is a more appropriate term.”

      “Nope.  We’re going with gang.  Greg’s Great and Groovy Gang.”

      “Groovy?  Absolutely ridiculous.”

      “Sorry, but what’s done is done.”

      “Very well, but know I shall not utter the inanity in public.”

      “I hope not!  First rule of being in a gang is you don’t talk about being in a gang!”

Mycroft raised his hands to mouth and made Greg laugh out loud from the faux-horrified look on his face.

      “Egads!  You are correct.  I am utterly undone with embarrassment.”

      “I forgive you.  _This_ time.”

      “Such a harsh, harsh man you are, Gregory.”

      “I’m the head of a great and groovy gang!  Harsh comes with the job.”

      “Verily, I suspect you are right.  But, my dear… be truthful with me.  How confidant _are_ you that this will succeed?”

      “Honestly?  More than fifty percent, which is actually a lot more confident than I am with any of my wacky schemes when I’m just starting with the planning.  Lots of things can go wrong, but I’m good at thinking on my feet and that goes a long way in my business.  Ultimately, whatever we finally do may not match up well with what we’re thinking, now, about doing, but I’ve got some confidence we’ll see me sorted out somehow when all is said and done.”

      “I… that does ease my mind, somewhat.  Not as much, however, as I would prefer.”

      “It _will_ be alright, Mycroft.  I didn’t feel that way when I stumbled into your church with my arm doing its best to fall off my body, but I do now.  And I think, with a firmer idea of things, I suspect you will feel better about it, too.”

      “True.  Of course, in the meantime, we also have other responsibilities and cannot allow those to be left unmet.”

      “Such as?”

      “First, I _do_ have a job I must perform for my community and that shall not be allowed to lapse in the slightest.”

      “Right, yes.  Actually did forget about that for a moment.  You’re absolutely right, though, love.  Not a single time do I want you to put this looniness before the needs of the people who count on you.  I’m going to consider that of prime importance.”

      “I do appreciate that, Gregory.  I have a great deal of flexibility with my work and will use that to our advantage, but I must see that others who need me do not suffer because of this matter.  And, of course, we must remember the fete.  It is almost upon us and that does require a rather large amount of time and attention.”

      “What?  That’s not really a pressing concern, is it?”

      “The preparations have already begun, Gregory.  You were lectured on it rather pointedly by Mrs. Turner, I believe.”

      “Yeah, but… I… I don’t know why, but I thought it was months away.”

      “Two weeks.  Actually, a few days shy of that.”

      “That soon?  Ok… ok, that’s not so bad.  I mean all you have to do is meander about and smile, so…”

      “I have to judge several contests, take shifts manning various booths and exhibits, script the opening and closing speeches, present awards, coordinate with…”

      “Fine!  Fine, I get it.  Ok, you have a lot to do, but not too much, it seems, that requires a great deal of preparation.  And, I don’t have anything to do, at all, so…”

      “You have to help with the construction of various booths, exhibits and games, you, as well as I, are already penciled in on teams for certain contests, there will be work to do to prepare the grounds for the event, the…”

      “WAIT!  What… where did all of that come from?”

      “From the planning meeting I attended two days ago.”

      “I… me?  And why wasn’t _I_ at this meeting so I could save my own skin!”

      “Because I was there as your representative.  Everyone must contribute in their own way, Gregory.  That is how communities function.”

      “But why is my own way the hardest way possible?”

      “Pish tosh.  Besides, your support of our little social event and fundraiser was most remarked upon.”

      “You mean the support you volunteered me for?”

      “The source of the inspiration is irrelevant.”

      “Oh my god…”

      “Our Lord also appreciates your devotion to the members of his flock.”

      “Then he can get his lardy arse down here and wield a hammer and paintbrush!”

      “I have no doubt he shall be with us in spirit.”

      “Spirits can’t use a saw!”

      “But they can guide your motions, so all of your fingers remain merrily attached to your hand.”

      “I can’t win here, can I?”

      “I doubt there is any contest with the Almighty that a human can claim to win.”

      “Shit.  Warm, creamy shit on a shit-sprinkled sandwich.”

      “Gregory… that is revolting.”

      “Good.  It’s time someone or something revolted on you, Dictator Holmes.  Go to sleep, you horrible thing.  And don’t be making deals with the village ladies or that god of yours while I’m enjoying my own fitful and nightmare-filled rest.  Probably dream of being chased by a giant paintbrush.”

Mycroft there-there’d his lover and laid a small kiss on the top of his head, which was somewhat muddled by the large yawn that erupted in Greg’s hair.

      “See!  Even your evil mouth is telling you to go to sleep.”

      “I think you may have a point.”

      “Think you might actually sleep this time?”

      “I… I do.  As always, my mind is eased from its troubles when you are with me.”

Now, it was Greg giving Mycroft a small kiss and he snuggled closer to give partner what physical comfort he could, as well.

      “I’m glad.  Especially with busy days ahead of us.  We’ll need all the sleep we can get.”

      “Yes… yes, we do.”

Which, now, was a shared sleep and one Mycroft was desperately hopeful would continue always to be the case.  And, truly, Gregory should not complain about paintbrushes in his nightmares.  He should once suffer a dream populated with by the women of the Flower Society… nothing in the depths of hell quite compared to that…

__________

Despite the expectations of everyone at the vicarage, Sherlock showed no signs of bolting back to London and, given the visit was helpful to John and kept his brother away from his own sets of troubles, Mycroft let the matter lie unmentioned and simply settled into to a more communal life, which was punctuated twice by the arrival of Anderson to further their plotting and scheming and countless phone calls by Greg’s parents who wanted to be kept up-to-the-minute informed about, as it was now termed – The Scheme.  ‘Plan’ had been jettisoned for not sounding gang-y enough, over Greg’s objection that they were now becoming cartoonish.  Apparently, cartoonish suited his gang members very agreeably.

      “Why are _we_ the ones building this speech-and-awards platform when there are certainly a scad of qualified carpenters in the village who could do the job better, faster and with far fewer fatal injuries due to splinters?”

Greg paused and wiped his forehead, wondering if John had overheard his conversation with Mycroft about this very issue, because the doctor had hit every relevant point he’d raised.  All of which Mycroft had pooh-poohed in that special way he had that was both infuriating and endearing at the same time.

      “Because the people best qualified to do it already donated the materials for this and a lot of other things, so it wouldn’t be very grateful of us, now would it, to ask for donated labor, too?”

      “I see you lips moving, but I hear Mycroft’s voice.”

      “I wonder why.  Luckily, Dad had some ideas about what to do, so we shouldn’t make too shit a job of it.”

      “I hope so.  You’re representing Mycroft in this and the village wouldn’t take kindly to their vicar being humiliated.”

      “It’s a big responsibility and one…”

Greg’s pause was a long and sigh-filled one, which John understood, given his own long, sigh-filled pauses that peppered his growing relationship with Sherlock.

      “You’re not sure you’re ready for?”

      “That’s not quite it.  It’s more… I’m not sure I can measure up to it.  Mycroft _is_ an important person in this little slice of Ruralvania and I can fuck up a wet dream.  I’m surprised I already haven’t done something to have the village folk chasing both him and me out of here, their pitchforks held high and torches blazing.”

      “Maybe… maybe you being a completely useless fuckwit is helped somewhat when you’ve got Mycroft nearby to… steady things.”

      “I won’t say you’re wrong.  Mycroft always was the angel on my shoulder, battling with the devil on the other side.  He didn’t win all the time, but he won his fair share and… yeah, I guess that was steadying.  Kept me from flying completely off the rails completely when that would have been an easy thing for me to do.”

      “Now you’ve got a chance to make that permanent.  Giving it some thought.”

      “Giving it a fucking world of thought.  Actually, the thought is about how to make it work, rather than if I want it or not.  I mean… how do we do it?  Practically, that is.  Vicars don’t make a great deal of money and I certainly won’t live here without standing my half of the bills.  But, what is there for me to do?  It’s not as if jobs are growing on trees and… I can’t see myself being happy with the sorts that _might_ be growing, even if they were.”

      “You don’t think Mycroft would want to live in London?”

      “No.  No, I don’t.  I think he’d do it, if that’s what it came to, and I know he’s worked in cities before and found it rewarding.  But… this is really what he’s always wanted in his life.  Something where he’s able to be of daily help to people, but still gives him the peace and quiet he loves for reading, studying… I can’t ask him to give up all of that.  I just can’t.”

      “Could _you_ adapt?  To the peace and quiet, I mean.”

      “If you’d have asked me before I had a fucking price on my head, I’d have laughed at you.  But… I think… I _do_ love London, but how much of that love is for the constant shit that kept me pushing forward, mostly to not think about the constant shit that was pushing me forward, I don’t know.”

      “What does that even mean?”

      “It’s… like I was just keeping myself busy, I guess.  I like going to clubs, for instance, but… it’s not like I thought ‘hey, it’d be fun to go out for the evening.’  It was more I had time to fill and just went wherever that time would get filled with lots and lots of things.  Drugs, sex, loud music, chance for a fight…”

      “Sounds like you were running away from being alone with yourself.”

      “HA!  Don’t think that hasn’t been in my head lately, too.  I look at Mycroft and I see someone who has built something.  He worked and worked to get what he wanted, and he did it.  When he’s alone with himself, he’s with a good and decent man who has real accomplishments to look back on and feel proud of.  What do I have to show for my life?  I can’t say I’ve built anything.  I don’t really have any close mates, no relationships I’ve been particularly keen on… I can point to a few people I can say I helped, but it was only the once and I didn’t keep an interest in them, really, afterwards.  Saw a need, did something about it, and moved on.  The only thing I’ve ever really built is my reputation and that’s not something anyone should be proud of, unless they’re another miserable fucker like me.  It’s a little village and a little church, but Mycroft’s built a grand, wonderful life for himself with it that he can take pride in…”

      “And you’d like to be able to do something like that.”

      “I’m starting to think so.  Or, to be honest, I’ve always thought about that, but believed that I could achieve it by doing the next and better deal.  Making the larger bit of cash.  Clawing to the top of the shit heap where the air was a little fresher and there weren’t so many flies.”

      “Lovely.”

      “Not surprising that’s not looking so good to me anymore, is it?  If it really ever was.  I just… I just don’t know anymore.  What I _do_ know is I’m tired of racing forward, but not leaving my footprints anywhere behind me.”

      “You think you can do that here?”

      “I don’t know.  I don’t see how, right now, but, I also haven’t had that at the front of my brain what with other things to worry about.”

      “Well, if anyone can help you work through that mess, it’s Mycroft.  He… he’s rather good at getting to the heart of things and in not a great deal of time.”

The look on John’s face said this was not the time for Greg to pry into that particular can of personal worms, so Greg simply smiled gently and gave a small nod to show he understood both the point of John’s words and the need for privacy until he felt better about sharing the various worms with other ears.

      “It’s to be expected, John.  It always was a talent of his.  That’s how we met, actually.  I was busily kicking a wall at school because I’d gotten mad in class and he stepped in see if he could help.  I was in primary school and already getting my knickers in a twist because of this or that, usually because I’d done something stupid and got scolded for it.  He was just a little shaver, but already had an instinct for asking the right questions, saying the right things… and just being willing to show honest concern and interest.  Mycroft was the new boy at school, but he was willing to reach out to some ridiculous wall-kicker and try to help.  And he did.  Even made me take off my shoe and show him my toes so he could see if I’d broken any of them.”

      “What a little tosser you were.  I really do pity your poor parents.”

      “I was awful!”

      “You still are.”

      “True.  Maybe I don’t want to be so awful anymore, though.”

      “That’s a very mature line of thought.  Is Greg Lestrade actually thinking about becoming an adult?”

      “It’s a radical notion, I know.  Especially since Mycroft’s mother told me more than once she didn’t think I’d survive to see adulthood.  Thought I’d be knifed to death or something long before then.”

Now it was John’s turn to pause and Greg cocked an eyebrow in his direction to pull the question out of John’s mouth.

      “What… what do you know about her?”

      “Not much more than Sherlock’s told you, probably.”

      “That would be nothing.”

      “He doesn’t talk about her?”

      “I didn’t know he had a brother!  Biology tells me he had to have a mother, but he doesn’t talk about her.  I know she died of cancer, but that’s about all.”

      “Well… she was a miserable cow, that’s for certain.  Treated Mycroft like help most of the time and doted on Prince Sherlock.”

The slight scowl on Greg’s face, along with the sourness of his words, underscored something John had been sensing since they arrived.

      “You have a real grudge against Sherlock, don’t you?”

      “I… I did.  A nasty one, too.  Maybe I still do, to some degree.  It was just so hard watching him get all the attention, every help or advantage, and Mycroft not get anything, no matter how hard he tried to be a good brother and good son.  He was the best person imaginable and you’d think he was invisible, what with the lack of motherly love he got.  If there was a bit left over when the bills were paid, it’d be spent on Sherlock.  New coat, new shoes… Mum used to feel sorry for him and get him a coat or shoes when she visited the charity shop to buy for me.  I was murder on clothes and we never had enough to replace it with new, but she’d set aside a quid here or there for when she noticed Mycroft’s winter hat was getting worn through or he’d grown enough so his trousers scarcely covered his ankles.  Mycroft’s mum wasn’t flush, by any means, but Sherlock didn’t hurt for the basics like Mycroft did.”

      “Ooh.  Yeah, sounds like the mother had a bad case of spoil-the-baby syndrome.  Older siblings do pay heavy prices for that, at times.”

      “It probably wasn’t really as bad as it seemed to me then, but… it was just hard.  I really lost it when there was a scholarship offer and she put Sherlock in for it, not Mycroft.  Mycroft was a ruddy genius and she passed him over to see Sherlock get the prize.”

      “That the school he went away for?”

      “Yeah.  Some poncy school where you step straight from that through whatever door in the world you wanted.  It’s all laid out at your feet and… what Mycroft could have done with that I can only imagine.”

      “Sherlock hated it.  I don’t think he considers what he got a prize, in the slightest.  A curse is more like it.”

      “I know!  That’s part of why I was angry.  He didn’t want to go, then kept nearly getting thrown out once he was there.  He squandered that opportunity.  Mycroft wouldn’t have.”

      “If it had been his choice, I think Sherlock would happily have traded places with his brother.  He truly did hate it.  Not petulantly, but… he was bullied, friendless, didn’t fit in, and the other boys didn’t hesitate to let him know that.  I think he was scared most of the time when he was smaller, then just hardened to not giving a shit about any of it as he got older.  But, saying that out loud, it’s not exactly right.  He _pretends_ he doesn’t give a shit about it, but he does.  Sherlock’s got a fairly fragile heart behind all the stinging nettles and vicious badgers he’s got guarding it and I’m not sure the injuries his heart’s received over the years have properly healed yet.  And, I suspect it never occurred to him when he was a tot that he was getting the better end of things than his brother.  Or, maybe it did.  I still don’t have much of a grasp of Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s relationship.”

It was childish… very, very childish… that he didn’t want more of his grudge to fade, but that didn’t stop Greg trying for a moment to cling to the last few cupsful of bile he still had in his gut over Sherlock.  It wasn’t surprising, though, that he wasn’t meeting with a lot of success.  His younger self really didn’t think about the fact that Sherlock didn’t fit in with people, any more than Mycroft did.  Mycroft, however, had him for protection and friendship.  Sherlock… Sherlock hadn’t had anyone.  Greg the punk kid couldn’t see something like that, but Greg the punk adult could and happily give himself a mental kick to the teeth for still being an arsehole about it when he could actually try and do more of what nobody had for Sherlock in the past.  If nothing else, it would make Mycroft happy to know Sherlock had another person squarely on his side for support.

      “Truthfully, John, I don’t think they do either.  They don’t seem to communicate a great deal, these past several days notwithstanding, so I doubt either of them really knows what the other is thinking or feeling about much of anything.  Mycroft _would_ like to change that, but Sherlock seems to be the one person he can’t find a way to reach the way he can with others.  It won’t stop him trying, but I know it frustrates him, especially with Sherlock being as deep into the drugs world as he’s gotten.”

      “Sherlock tells me you want to change that.  At least in terms of finding him other ways to earn his keep.”

      “Don’t you?”

      “Absolutely!  But, I’d prefer to see him away from… _all_ of it.  I’m not sure if just shifting him to a different point on London’s crime map is a good idea.”

      “Got a better one?”

      “No.  No, and that’s the problem.  I mean… he’s brilliant!  He could do anything, but… it all bores him senseless.  His time at the poncy school _did_ get him into college and he’s got a fine degree.  Could get a job without any problem, but he’s got naught for interest in anything I’ve suggested.  I still know people and could get him a position in a medical lab, for example.  They always need good, perceptive chemists, but you’d think I offered him a job at a dress shop.  Waves it off, calls me idiotic and changes the subject completely.”

      “Until we can think of something else, then, I don’t see an alternative to my offer, which will put him into something safer, at the very least.  Cleaner, too, in terms of who gets hurt and how much hurt they see.  Think you can convince him into it?”

      “Maybe.  If what you dangle in front of him is shiny enough I might be able to nudge him that direction.  His natural contrariness will make him put up a fight, but that’ll only be because he won’t want it to seem as if he’s accepting help.”

      “Which is something we both understand all too well.”

      “Speak for yourself, you prideful git.”

      “Pride goeth before the fall and I haven’t fallen one inch, thank you very much.”

      “Oh, your bollocks haven’t descended yet?  Explains why Mycroft’s been in such a foul mood.”

      “Aren’t you a funny man.”

      “I think so.  Now, this debacle of wood and nails isn’t going to finish building itself, you know.”

      “I was sort of hoping it would.  Maybe get bored listening to us drone on and on or be so disgusted at our craptacular carpentry that it just went and finished the job itself.”

      “We don’t seem to be that lucky.”

      “Fuck.”

      “Pretty much.”

      “Could be worse.”

      “We could be Sherlock.”

      “Making flower arrangements.”

      “Pretty little bouquets tied with delicate bows.”

      “How many do you think he’ll make before he does something so appalling Mrs. Hudson will tie _him_ up with a bow and toss him out onto the vicarage lawn?”

      “Oh, I have no doubt it’s already happened.  Gag in mouth and a sign planted in front of him that says ‘Arse for Sale.’ “

      “You know, John… Sherlock does have a laudable arse.  The fete could probably see a nice profit from auctioning it off for hour-long blocks of debauchery.”

      “Hmmm… you might be onto something.  I’ll talk to Mycroft about it.  He’ll have a better feel for how much local interest there would be in something like that.”

      “Oh, let me tell you from personal experience.  The answer is a _lot_.”

      “Really?  I think we might have a plan, then.”

      “Can this one stay with being a ‘plan?’  I don’t think I can manage another ‘scheme.’ “

      “Are you still angry about that?”

      “Yes.”

      “Get over it, you big baby.”

      “I’m not a baby, I’m the head of a groovy gang with a hammer in my hand.”

      “That’s starting to sound like a folk tune.”

      “I know.  That’s why we’ll never mention it again.” 


	22. Chapter 22

      “Yes, Mrs. Turner… I really do think the green is fine, but I agree that your suggestion of blue should be considered… Well, it’s a little late to do anything about it now… No, I don’t think our lazy housekeeper can sew new table coverings for the display tables before tomorrow… What I _can_ do is make a note that next year, we should do a blue theme instead of a green one… Ok… Yes, I realize I’m only marginally useful, but we all have our little failings… No, I wasn’t saying you have failings, Mrs. Turner… I was talking about… the communists.  The communists have failings… Yes, I completely agree with that, too… I’ll keep an eye out for any communists, anarchists or the Welsh at the fete… You, too… Yeah, Goodbye.”

Greg made a vow to find out who’d passed along his mobile number to more than a few of the villagers and break every finger on both hands.  Which, since it was very probably Sherlock, meant no hand jobs for John in the foreseeable future.  The entire village had been on his neck about the fete!  He’d had to listen, day and night, to their legion of complaints, suggestions, requests, questions and vague ramblings.  And respond to all of it!  That was in addition to the tasks he had to perform, many of which arose from his years and years on the phone.  Some of it he could foist off on Sherlock and John, but a lot he had to do himself because, weirdly, the village seemed… to trust him.  Just yesterday, he had an old woman phone for him to bicycle to her house and drive her, with _her_ car, to the next village so she could get some special ingredient for a cake she was baking!  It was insane.  Loony.

Sort of nice, though.  He wasn’t used to being trusted.  Quite the opposite, actually.  Wasn’t used to being seen as useful, either, beyond his ability to break someone’s nose or steal their wallet.  It was bizarre to be looked on as a person people looked at to get a job done… a legal job… and trust that their issues would be taken seriously and passed along to Mycroft or acted on by him, himself.  He felt… oh god, he felt like his dad.  This was a disaster!

And speaking of…

      “Son of mine!  Look at you still alive after having a few lungs of fresh air and many mouthfuls of fresh vegetables in your evil body.”

Dad and Mum were here.

      “Greg!  Oh, Greg… don’t listen to him.  I’m happy someone is putting a good bit of flesh on your skinny bones!”

And, he was getting fat.  Amazing.

      “I told you, Katie, Mrs. Hudson is almost as good as you in the kitchen.  She’ll have him sorted in no time.”

Don’t pat your stomach, Dad.  It makes the Earth tremble, you miserable round bastard.

      “I’m so glad.  I’m just… oh, Greg…”

Cue the teary mum hug.  This was Mycroft’s fault.  Wholly and solely his fault.  Bugger had to go and issue a special invitation for them to come and stay a day or two and enjoy ‘our little festival.’  Everyone in the world was a bastard and Mycroft was their king.  Dad was the jester.

      “Mum, you’re soaking my jumper.”

      “I am not.  It’s just so good to see you son.  It’s been so long!”

      “It hasn’t!  It really, really hasn’t.”

      “And with your Mycroft, too.  I can’t wait to see him!  I’ve missed him so much.  Sherlock, too.  Oh, where are they?  I want to give each of them a massive hug.”

      “Hiding.”

Yes, his mother punched as hard as she ever did.  How could she shatter his arm bones with _her_ arms being as thin as pencils!  It boggled the mind…

      “Don’t be silly.”

      “Can’t, what with a compound fracture of the… whatever that top arm bone is.”

      “Humerus, my dear.”

      “Mycroft!  Oh… oh come here and give me a hug, you handsome thing!”

Mycroft stepped fully into the sitting room and eagerly accepted the hug from the woman who had been more of a mother to him than his own mother, and by a large margin.

      “I’m getting weepy... Graham!  Graham, look at him.  He’s grown up to become such a fine man.  A vicar with his own church… we knew you’d make something of yourself, Mycroft.  Knew it right away you were made for great things.”

      “Your support was instrumental in bringing me to this point, Mrs. Lestrade.”

      “Katie, dear!  You’re a grown man now.”

      “I… oh…”

      “Or, better yet, it’s time for Mum, I think.  After all, you’re back with Greg and… you were _always_ like a son to Graham and me, Mycroft.  We loved you dearly then and it’s no different now.  Oh, look at you… I nearly cried when I heard your voice on the phone!”

      “She cried like a mother finding a lost child, Mycroft, don’t believe anything different.  My Katie had the best day of her year hearing your voice again.  Had to stand there and hand her tissues so she could actually talk to you!”

Mycroft was enduring the worst challenge of his life as he struggled not to simply bury his head in his adopted mother’s arms and not let go while he had his own bout of weeping.  Something he had done more than once when he was a child and the world had seemed far too cold and uncaring, and his own mother could be described in similar terms.

      “I shall gladly claim you as Mother, as I always have in my heart.”

      “Graham!”

A flurry of hands searched Greg’s father’s pockets and the resulting tissue was quickly passed to his wife to dab her red and weepy eyes.

      “There, there, my lovely wife.  Greg?  Why don’t you and Mycroft put our bags somewhere comfortable and find your mother a nice spot of gin to soothe her nerves.”

Greg opened his mouth to mention it was only one in the afternoon, but Mycroft’s ‘you will not!’ glare burned that intention right out of his mind.

      “Fine.  Gin and tonic for you, Mum?  Anything else?  A few amuse bouche or a whole roasted ox?”

      “Do you have any crisps, love?”

      “NO!  You can’t have any fucking crisps with your blood pressure!  Are you trying to have a heart attack and give Mycroft one, too.  He will, you know.  Drop dead right here and then you’ll be sorry for ignoring your doctor, now won’t you?”

Already he was being used for maternal guilt.  Mycroft had never before felt so deeply a part of any family and quickly moved to find his guests a beverage and something to eat.  Mrs. Hudson was occupied with the final arrangements for the various baking competition and it was only the impending arrival of Gregory’s parents that did not have both him and Gregory torn in twenty directions with last-minute details to oversee.  It was most interesting how many demands were rescinded when he informed the demander that his Gregory’s family was arriving.  It seemed the hosting of one’s proverbial in-laws bought one a certain measure of dispensation for one’s obligations.

      “This is all your fault, you favorite-son bastard.”

Standing in the kitchen with his lover, working together as a couple, the target of hysterical reactions to a parental visit… this was a life about which he had always dreamed, but never thought he’d find.

      “Gregory, your father had already mentioned the possibility of visiting.  This was simply an opportune time.”

      “No, an opportune time was when I was away on holiday.  Or in prison.”

      “Gregory…”

      “What?  They’re here to see you, anyway.  They’ve had a disappointing life of seeing me whenever they wanted, so this isn’t to catch up with my lack of news.”

      “They are here to see _us_ , and you are well aware of that fact.”

      “Pfft.  There here to see you as the main contributor to us.  No!  No, don’t even try because if I have to be the vicar’s wife, you have to be the dutiful son-in-law.  I’m sorry, but it’s the rules.”

      “Very well.  I shall tend to the various tours and introductions and you can tend to the laundry, cooking, housecleaning…”

      “Wrong.  We have a Mrs. Hudson for that.  I, apparently, have to tend to home repair and chauffeuring little old ladies about to do their shopping.”

      “Mrs. Stone was most grateful for your assistance.”

      “And said she’d recommend me to all her friends!  I’m not a taxi service.”

      “Our elders deserve all the assistance we can provide.”

      “Then you do it!”

      “I do not have a driving license.”

      “Fuck.”

      “I do not have a license for that, either.”

      “Funny.  I’ll be fixing their roofs soon, too, won’t I?”

      “Hmmm… that is difficult to know.  Most have some means that enables them to hire professionals to do the task, however, there are some for whom any small kindness is a true blessing.”

      “So, that’s a yes.”

      “The gifts we are given by the Lord should be eagerly offered to those who have need of such gifts.”

      “Greg the Builder.  Sounds like someone in a bloody kids’ program!”

      “You _are_ a favorite of the village schoolchildren.”

      “Which is why I have to play the fox in tomorrow’s puppet show.”

      “Also the talking tree, do not forget about that.  Have you been practicing your lines?”

      “I know my lines.  It’s the voices I have to work on.  Can’t have a fox sound like a tree, now can I?”

      “Certainly not.  Perhaps your father might offer suggestions.  I remember him having quite the repertoire of voices with which to narrate his tales.”

      “You mean the Happy Rat and Tim the Tiny Tyre?”

      “Your father’s work at the scrapheap did figure heavily in the imaginary creatures he concocted to entertain the children on your street.”

      “And, now, his son takes up the mantle.  I may have to do the bluebird, too, if the Taylor’s oldest daughter’s cold keeps her at home tomorrow.”

      “I believe the bluebird’s dialogue is most sparse; you might ask your mother to act as the stand-in, should the need arise.”

      “I’ll ask Dad.  His twittery voice is better than hers.  He used to pretend to be my gran when they had to call about this or that business of hers and nobody knew the difference.”

Spying on the two young men in the kitchen, Greg’s parents shared a satisfied nod at what they were seeing.  A proper couple working together and being as daft as any couple when there was nobody about to hear them.  It had been a long road to get to this point, but what a point it was…

      “If you two are done spying, you can come in and get your own fucking bread and cheese.”

Spying… what a silly person their son was.  Inspecting, evaluating… certainly not spying…

      “We’re not nearly done, you awful thing.  Your father and me scarcely had a chance to spy on you when you were young, so we’re making up for lost time.”

      “Nice. Very nice, Mum.  Just for that, you can pour your own gin.  And one for me, too.  Love, wine for you?”

      “Ooh, yes, please. That would go well with our little nibble.”

      “If you have a nice white, Mycroft, I may join you and leave the gin for later.”

      “I do, M… Mother. Might I pour for everyone?”

His parents nodding didn’t surprise Greg, but it did make him smile at the clichéd domesticity of it all.  Him and Mycroft entertaining the parents… it wasn’t so long ago he was buying potential-blackmail photos and not long before _that_ he was enjoying a chemically-enhanced fuck with two willing birds he’d pulled at one of his favorite clubs.  Life came at you fast and the smart person knew when that was a good thing and when it wasn’t.  Nobody ever said Greg Lestrade wasn’t smart.  Ok, a _lot_ of people had said that, but fuck them because they didn’t have a Mycroft of their own, so they were sad and pitiful and their opinion didn’t matter… yeah, definitely time for wine.  With gin to follow… lots and lots of gin…

__________

      “There he is!”

John smirked at Sherlock crashing to a halt and freezing in place as if his feet had been nailed to the floor when he heard the sound of a highly-familiar female voice.

      “I… you… you are here.”

      “Didn’t I tell you, Katie?  Look how big he’s gotten?  Still as lemony as ever, but… just warms the heart to see him.  Little Sherlock… with his John!”

Who got his own hug from the woman who vaulted out of her seat and squeezed both him and Sherlock so hard they lost all the air in their lungs.

      “Oh, Sherlock… I’ve worried so much about you.  My little Sherly… with a doctor on his arm!”

The most amazing thing John had ever seen was a tie between Sherlock’s pink cheeks above his ‘mum, you’re embarrassing me’ scowl and his offering the trailing ends of his scarf for Greg’s mother to dab her watery eyes.

      “Hello, Mrs. Lestrade.”

      “Sherlock…”

      “Hello… Mumsie.”

Mycroft’s and Greg’s grins both lit up at that and thanked their lucky stars they were here to hear it.  Apparently, Sherlock had his own little secrets nobody had ever been gracious enough to share.

      “That’s my good boy.  Come in and sit!  We’ve done the wine and moved on to a spot of gin if either of you have a taste for it.”

John sedately made his way to an empty seat, took it, then made a ‘start pouring’ motion at Greg’s dad, who was the current keeper of the bottle.

      “Oh, I like him, Sherlock.  You can keep him; he’s a winner.”

The small motion of her fingers had Sherlock bending down for a whispered something in his ear which, to Mycroft’s great delight, draw one of his brother’s rare, true smiles onto his lips.  It only lasted a moment, but it was enough to reassure him that his brother’s heart was still reachable by those who loved him.

      “Katie, love, show Sherlock your glass.  He’d appreciate that, being artistic and all.”

      “Good idea.  I’ll get them.”

As his mother darted up the stairs to their temporary bedroom, Greg sighed loudly and shook his finger at Mycroft.

      “This is your fault.  Again.”

      “Your parents asked how they might contribute to our fundraising efforts and I simply mentioned the auction.”

      “Who on Earth is going to bid for some strange bit of glass Dad says isn’t even useful, like a bowl or something?”

Two hands smacked Greg’s head, one from Mycroft, one from Greg’s father and both convinced him to take his mother’s vacated seat which was beyond the swatting radius of his newly-acquired enemies.

      “Here we are!  I was so happy you told us about the auction, Mycroft.  If either of these silly things even sees five quid, I’ll consider it well worth bringing them.  Well, what do you think, Greg?  Your mum’s tat worth a few bob?”

Greg’s silence was deafening and his mother cut eyes his way a few times after she put her pieces on the small sofa table, hoping to get some reaction out of her silent son.  Something which had Mycroft worrying, too, since his partner took several more moments to say anything.

      “You made those, Mum?”

      “I did.  The lad who teaches the class helped with some ideas for how to do what I wanted to do but… oh, Greg, are they _that_ horrid?”

Greg looked long and hard at the abstract masses of glass, one compact and spherical with lots of blues and greens and the other with slender tendrils spreading in all directions, filled with oranges, reds and very deep purples and sighed in a way that made his father start looking for tissues again.

      “They’re amazing.  They’re absolutely, fucking amazing.  I… I admit it.  I expected them to be dreadful, mum crafts.  These… this is the sort of stuff I see in those galleries that would chase me out if I tried to walk in for a better look.”

Now the tissue searching was a multi-man operation as the happiness spilled down Greg’s mother’s cheeks and she did a small dance of glee at Greg’s appraisal, the steps of which became even giddier when Mycroft began to speak.

      “They are highly intriguing, I must say.  You have mastered your techniques most laudably and I have no doubt there will be great interest in them at our auction.  On a lovely day, which describes tomorrow, according to the weather forecast, we see a rather sizeable attendance and fine work such as this is always highly prized.”

      “I told you, Katie.  You’re a proper artist, not a dabbler.  Got that creative eye and... whatever else it is you need to be artistic.  Sherlock, John… I’m right, aren’t I?”

Even if they were staring at a disinterested five-year-old’s crafts-class clay lump, John would have agreed wholeheartedly.  Fortunately, they weren’t so his agreement didn’t skirt the area of a white lie in any shape or form.

      “Absolutely.  They’re very well-done.  Sometimes glass pieces look… lifeless and like something your gran would have tucked on a shelf, but these are something special.”

      “Hmmmm…”

Sherlock’s hum made John want to give him a ‘tread carefully’ pinch, but Sherlock shot out of his seat before the pincers could be applied to his skin.

      “These are reminiscent of the sketches you made of the Sun and the Earth.”

      “You remember that!  It was so many years ago…”

      “I… I enjoyed looking through your sketchbook.”

Greg had no idea how his parents had a secret life he knew nothing about when he was growing up, then remembered how little time he spent at home when he was growing up and shelved any comment that may have been burbling up in his throat.  Once Mycroft left, it had been especially bad, so yeah… they could have been running a brothel out of their flat and he probably wouldn’t have noticed a thing besides an extra guest or two at breakfast.

      “I still have it, too!  And, you’re absolutely right.  Those were the inspirations for these pieces.  You always had such a good eye, Sherlock.  And a good brain to go with them.”

Sherlock got another hug, John got his gin and a very good vision of what Greg and Mycroft’s life was going to be like, now, as well as how often he and Sherlock were going to be sitting at Greg’s parents table for dinner.  Sherlock had never mentioned this mother and father, any more than he had his brother, but that was likely, he suspected, to protect one of the few happy memories he harbored, memories that made him more human that he felt comfortable showing to the world.

      “It has been verified that I am a genius.”

      “Which I said when you were a tiny sprog.  A true and proper genius, just like your brother, though your genius was more an out-of-control lorry and his was more a bicycle ride along the river, but it all amounts to the same thing.”

Not that anyone could see how, but it was usually better to let sleeping dogs lie.

      “Mycroft does have a bicycle, Mum.  Rides it everywhere.”

      “Ooh!  Maybe I’m one of those psychics.”

      “There’s money in that, Katie, love!  Go on the telly wearing lots of scarves and jewelry and say common-sense things that people will swoon over when it comes true, like they’ll make up with the friend they had a fight with or it’ll rain by week’s end. It rains every bloody week in London, but the berks fall for it ever time!  We’ll need the extra cash, too, what with Greg giving up his life of crime so he can be a suitable wife for Mycroft there.”

Something that had been weighing heavily on Greg’s mind, but Mycroft’s had, admittedly, not taken into consideration if the ‘oh dear’ look on his face was any proof.

      “Peggy Watkins has a cousin who works for the BBC; I’ll talk to her about it.  I’d be a brilliant telly psychic!  I’ll need to think of a good name, something like… Clairvoyant Katie.  Or should I do with the Katherine.  That sounds a bit stodgy, though, and psychics can’t be stodgy.”

      “I’m not going to leave you poor, Dad.  And, Mum doesn’t have to go on telly to lie to people. She can do that without scarves and jewelry anytime she pleases.”

      “Your mother and I like to be prepared, lad.  But, that’s not a worry now, since you’re still a rotten criminal and seeing our taxes paid.  Besides, we’ve got to focus on your and Mycroft’s little do tomorrow.  Why don’t you show me what you have left to finish and I’ll throw in however I can.  John, I hear you’re showing your mettle with hammer and saw… come along with us and we’ll leave Sherlock and Mycroft here to escort your mum about the village or have a sit and chat with a bit more gin.”

Or, as Greg and John both read it, give Sherlock and Mycroft a chance to reconnect with the woman they clearly loved a great deal and had thought lost from their lives.

      “Sounds good to me.  Anything special you want me to do, Mycroft?”

      “Oh, could you check on the tent for the choral society luncheon?  Last year, we had a group of boys write rather rude things on the exterior and it was a devilish effort to scrub it clean.”

A revelation that, apparently, did not sit well with his dear Gregory, who had spent the better part of a day erecting the rather cumbersome structure.

      “Those little fuckers better not have written _one_ thing on that tent.  Took me and John ages to get it right!  I see any of them lurking about and it’ll be my boot up their arse, taking out their teeth from the inside.”

      “Gregory… we do a fair business selling posed and costumed photographs.  What mother will pay to have their son dressed as a dancing girl if he has no teeth in his smile?”

      “Fine.  I’ll detour and give their brains a knock, instead.  Can’t see brains from the outside, now can you?”

      “That is acceptable.”

With a ‘got it’ nod, Greg motioned for his dad and John to follow along and they quickly darted after him for what was sure to be a few hours of fixing various Greg and John Building Company errors and stopping in for a few pints at what was becoming ‘their’ pub.  The more genteel members of the family could sip gin, relax in comfy chairs and get to know each other once again.  Though, staying to watch the inevitable Sherlock squirming from being shown honest affection would have been wonderful to see.  Maybe Mycroft would take a few snaps for posterity…

__________

      “There’s a man that’s working hard.  Or hardly working.”

Mycroft looked up from his desk and towards the window of his study to smirk at Greg’s large, cheeky grin.

      “The latter, I am afraid.  I had hoped to make some progress on a few items for next week, however, I find my mind reluctant to take up the task.”

      “Something wrong?”

Mycroft frowned a moment, then sighed and waved Greg to climb into the study, since chatting through a window wasn’t the most dignified manner in which to hold a conversation.

      “No, in truth, it is precisely the opposite.”

      “Something’s right?”

      “Yes, actually.  I… I am still somewhat enveloped by the warmth of your mother’s visit.  And her open, gleeful love for Sherlock.”

Greg made a less than nimble entrance into the study and took his seat on the visitor’s side of Mycroft’s desk.

      “I knew Sherlock had _some_ relationship with Mum and Dad, especially after you left, but not as much as seems to have existed.  I’d have said something if I did.”

      “It is to my discredit that I did not, either, and that is the one thing that is weighing heavily on me at the moment.  I tried to maintain fertile lines of communication with Sherlock, before I left for college and after I departed, however…”

      ‘He didn’t want to take advantage of it.”

      “As is the pattern of his life, so I am not entirely surprised by it.  I am simply happy that he did have someone to whom he could reach out when in need.  I suspect your parents worried that if they spoke of it, he might withdraw that hand and that would _not_ be to his benefit.  Though, apparently, Mummy ensured it happened, in any case.”

      “Yeah, Dad told me that story.  And John filled in the blanks about how bad Sherlock’s life was away at school.  I’m glad he realized he had some support available for him.  I was about as useless as your Mum, I’m not proud to admit, but Mum and Dad both are far better people than I am.”

      “You have their genes, Gregory.  There _is_ good in you.  Quite a lot, in fact.”

      “I just kick it to the curb and step on its face for extra spite.”

      “You have your own personality that rebels at rules or niceties of society and you have low tolerance for those you consider foolish or, oddly, corrupt.  Therefore, you have little regret for the actions you take against them or the actions that show clearly how easily something might be achieved if one simply ignores the strictures you feel were put in place to mandate a slower, less effective path.”

      “That’s a very polite way of saying I’m an awful person.  I like it!”

Mycroft shook his head both at Greg’s words and the large, cocky grin on his lover’s face.  There would always be a darker streak running through his Gregory’s soul, but, with help, it could be managed.  Somewhat.  At least, managed well enough to keep his worst instincts from overcoming him and sending him barreling along a highly-unwanted path.

      “Delightful.  Now, how went your inspection?”

      “Good.  Dad pointed out a few things that could stand with a bit of improvement and we tended to it.  Ran across that banker bloke who asked if we could do something creative for the guess box for that How Many Sweets are in this Fucking Enormous Sweets Jar jar.  Says it gives people an extra thrill to put their guesses into something clever and fun.  I’ll set Mum on that, since she seems to be Miss Artsy now.”

      “I suspect she will be delighted to design something appropriate.  Her eagerness to participate in our event has been a thing to behold.  I…”

      “Yeah?”

      “She, and your father, seem most happy that they… they have _family_ , though I feel most shameful saying that and am worried it is slighting you in some fashion.”

      “It’s not slighting me, because I know exactly what you mean.  I’ve never been the best son, always more trouble than they’d ever see in reward.  When you were there, I was better at being someone they deserved.  And they had you, too!  The good son who was appreciative of all they did and were the sort of lad anyone family would be proud to claim.  Sherlock… I just thought he was a selfish prick, but Mum and Dad saw a little boy in need and pulled him under their wing.   They got the parent-y stuff they wanted, and I think they missed that a lot when it was gone.  I certainly didn’t step up and try to fill the hole.  In fact… I just made it deeper and emptier with all my stupidity.”

      “A child does not see things in the same manner as adults, Gregory.  When you became more aware, you made a tangible effort to help them achieve a more comfortable life and, it seems, affected an, albeit somewhat false, image of a more law-abiding, attentive son.”

      “Which they saw through like it was air.”

      “True, but I have no doubt they appreciated the effort, if only the for the greater amount of time you spent actively interacting with them.”

      “Which I let dwindle.”

      “You are determined not to admit any improvement in your relationship with your parents, it seems.”

      “I’m not willing to admit I’ve done all I can to be a better son.  Buying them a house and tossing them a bit of cash when it needs some work is… well, it’s just cash!  And I don’t visit a lot anymore, like Dad said.  I know that adult kids don’t live in their parents’ pockets, but I could do better.  A lot better.”

      “We all can do better, Gregory.  It is a condition of being human that there is always a little further we can reach, a bit more we can do… the critical thing is whether or not we try.”

      “I’m shit at that.  Always have been.  Think… think you can help me with it?”

      “Most certainly.  Together we shall build a relationship with your parents that provides the attention and interaction they desire, though… I am not certain how the monetary issue shall be addressed.”

      “I don’t either.  Mum and Dad both have jobs, but they’re basically earning enough to pay the grocery bill and utilities, have a spot of fun that they could never afford before.  And it’s jobs they enjoy, not jobs they had to take because it was all they could grab that would keep home and hearth together.  I don’t want that to change, love.  I can’t let that happen.”

      “No, and I would not allow you to do so.  I suggest, since they are aware of the situation, we include them in our discussions on the matter, so their thoughts can be heard.”

      “They’ll just say they want me to do whatever makes me happy and not to worry about them.”

      “Most likely, however, they would likely appreciate the fact that we reached out for their counsel.”

      “Oh… I get it.  Part of that attention and interaction thing you were talking about.”

      “The very thing.  And, one never knows, they may have concrete, effective suggestions to offer that we might not consider otherwise.”

Greg was quiet a moment and Mycroft hoped that it was because he was mentally coming to grips with more actively embracing a life that included his parents and someone with whom he was happy to _share_ those parents.

      “This is it, isn’t it?”

      “This is what, Gregory?”

      “Being a couple.  This is it.  Talking about the elderly parents, working on things together… and being comfortable doing that.  Happy about it, even.”

The mental grips were tight ones, it seemed.

      “Yes, this _is_ it.”

      “Good.  Maybe…”

      “Yes?”

      “Maybe I’m not as completely awful at it as I might have predicted.”

      “Hmmmm… I shall require more evidence before I make a final judgement.”

Greg rose and lay across Mycroft’s desk, so he could kiss his lover slowly and softly, uncaring of the paperwork he was crumpling beneath him.

      “I believe, dear Gregory, I shall judge in your favor.”

      “Yes!  Success for me!  And no!  No, I already see your mouth moving to probably take a knife to my happiness with some work you want me to do since I’m victorious and you evilly view work as a proper compensation for that.”

      “I…”

      “You were!  You were going to drop something evil right into my lap.”

      “Painting is not evil.”

      “It is when _you_ can wield a brush as easily as me.”

      “Then… perhaps it is something on which we can both toil.”

      “Fair enough.  And no trying something sneaky like saying your part is supervision or quality control.”

      “Drat.”

      “Apparently, your saintly aspirations, Right Reverend Mycroft Holmes, fall fucking flat when it comes to manual labor.”

      “Untrue.”

      “Whatever Mrs. Hudson has for pudding tonight, I get your share.  Liars can’t have cake.”

      “Then, I’m afraid, you are also bereft of cake.”

      “Shit.  You’re right.  And I did it to myself.  That’s the worst… there’s nothing worse than that.”

      “Shall we help ourselves to the last bit of _last_ night’s cake to salve the pain?”

      “I’ll do the plates and such if you’ll make tea.”

      “Again… we are doing _it_.”

      “We are!  Another success!”

      “Our cake has never been more deserved.”

Fleeing Mycroft’s study like two kids hearing the ice cream van, Mycroft and Greg sped to claim their prize before other hands might snatch it.  Luckily for them, John and Greg’s father were merrily engaged in an afternoon football match on the telly, while Sherlock showed Greg’s mother the sights of the village.  How that was proceeding Mycroft had no firm idea, however, he had bowed out of the event to give his brother time to speak privately and, hopefully, from the heart.  Certainly not a thing an older brother should intrude upon, no matter how desperately he wished to implement all possible surveillance and recording measures.  However, there were many eyes and ears in the village who would gladly share data from _their_ surveillance when the vicar came calling for tea…

__________

      “It’s lovely.  I can’t believe how lovely this all is, Sherlock.  Mycroft found his little piece of heaven, that’s the honest truth!”

      “Boring.”

      “For you, maybe.  You’ve always had restless blood.  Living for the next thing to learn, the next puzzle to solve.  I don’t see you living somewhere like this until, maybe, you’re an old duffer who’s ready for a bit of peace and quiet.  London’s a good place for you; this is a good place for Mycroft.  Everybody has their own good place and the trick is to find someone who’s good place is the same sort as yours!”

      “John prefers to live in London as opposed to… this.”

      “Brilliant!  Oh, I knew he was a good one for you.  I just knew it.  Graham said wonderful things and he knows people, he does.  Has the right eye for that sort of thing.  I’m so happy for you, Sherlock!”

Sherlock quickly produced a tissue, which he had stuffed his pockets full of before agreeing to escort Greg’s mother around the small village.

      “Thank you, love.  It’s a silly thing for me to have a little cry over every tiny thing, but… they’re not tiny, are they?  My Sherlock finding a good man to love, someone who makes him happy… that’s not a tiny thing, at all.”

Sherlock hated beyond hate the emotional elements of being human, but… there was no denying that there was truth to those words.

      “I… I am happy with John.”

      “I’m so glad you know that, love.  I can see it, of course, see it plain as day in the way you look at him, talk about him… but I’m glad you know it, too.  Graham and I worried that you’d miss the signals, ignore the signs and let good things or a good person slip through your fingers.  Well, we don’t have to worry about that anymore!  Our Sherlock rose to the occasion and… oh, it’s just so wonderful.”

When he was growing up, Sherlock was highly aware that his mother’s attention had been focused on him and not his brother, something his younger self found amusing and, even, merited.  However, her attention had been more on what his accomplishments, presentation and accolades reflected on _her_ , rather than on him, himself.  That had never been the case with the Lestrades.

      “A genius does not miss such simplistic things.”

      “That’s bollocks, and you know it.  But, since you’re set and content, I won’t scold you for being tetchy.  Now… tell me about your brother.”

      “He is fat.”

      “Mycroft’s lean as a whippet, you awful thing.  He’s not got that extra plump he had when he was a lad and I suspect he’s not had it for years.  Now, you tell me what I want to know and don’t pretend you don’t know what that is.”

      “Fine.  Mycroft isn’t fat, but is boring and pedantic.”

Sherlock’s yelp from being smacked on the back of the head won him nothing but ‘you deserved it, young man’ nods from the various women who spied and approved of the action, having done it to their own sons on many an occasion.

      “Tell me about him and Greg.  I want your highly-observant opinion.  You’re so good at observing things, Sherlock, just amazes me time and time again.”

Sherlock’s head smarting dully warred with his newly-inflated ego, with the ego winning by a large margin.

      “They are nauseatingly besotted with each other.”

      “Yes!  Oh, I was hoping that was the case.  I mean, I didn’t how it _couldn’t_ be the case, what with them being so perfect for each other, but you never know!  Dear Greg… he sees the good path and just makes a rude gesture at it before running down the road of arsholery at full speed.  When Graham told me what was going on, I nearly fainted!  Mycroft still cared about our Greg, despite him being just as worrisome as he always was, and Greg didn’t shy away from his Mycroft who… well, he never said anything, but I think Greg loved Mycroft even when they were boys.  Wasn’t sure at the time if it was just brotherly love or something more, but I guess I know now!”

      “Mycroft was equally enamored.  He thought his emotions were heavily concealed but, as typical, he was profoundly incorrect.”

      “Yeah, caught him making eyes at Greg when he didn’t think anyone, even Greg, was looking.  Poor boy… it was hard for him, at that age and in that area.  Having a taste for cock wasn’t looked well upon unless you were a girl.”

      “Which Mycroft very nearly is.”

      “Wrong, and I suspect Greg can give you a very long list of sexy reasons how he knows that’s not true.”

      “I may be ill.”

      “Doesn’t matter.  You’ve got a doctor at home to fix you right back to health.”

      “A valid point.  Though…”

      “Yes, love?”

      “John will no longer be at ‘home” with me when we return to London.”

      “Oh.  You two don’t have a place together?”

      “No.  John… he has a small flat in an extremely boring section of London and…”

      “You?”

      “I… do not always _have_ a place to live.”

Sherlock walked two steps alone before he was abruptly brought to a halt by a thin, but strong, hand grabbing the back of his jacket and holding fast.

      “Sherlock… what did you just say?”

      “I… it is of little consequence.”

      “It is most certainly not of little consequence!  You…”

Getting hugged, ever, was something Sherlock rarely experienced until he met John, and getting hugged in public was a rarer thing, still, in his life.  However, he quelled his urge to run away in terror since… it wasn’t the lethal experience he might have imagined.

      “You _always_ have a place to live, you silly bastard.  We’ve got room and we’d love to have you anytime.  Anytime and for as long as you want.  Don’t you dare, ever, let me learn that you’ve been sleeping rough, Sherlock Holmes.  I’ll box your ears good and hard for that.  You’re… you’re back with your family now and we don’t let one of ours go through a bad patch alone.  And that goes for your John, too.  Do you understand me, young man?”

      “Yes, Mumsie.”

      “Good.  While there’s a breath left in this body, and Graham’s, we won’t let this miserable world sink its teeth further into you.  Nor will your brother or Greg.  They’re here for you, lad, so you reach out when you need something.  Don’t let pride get in your way, nothing good comes of that.”

Though it _had_ been Sherlock’s pattern when he was young, something Greg’s mother knew all too well.  Little thing got his defenses up and wouldn’t let them slip even if it meant he suffered because of it.  Part of that was rooted in fear, but another part was rooted in pride.  Ultimately, the ratio didn’t matter, at this point, because she was determined to push past all of it and give her little Sherlock the love and support he needed.  It hurt her heart, deeply and sorely, that she hadn’t been there for him these many long years to offer that help, but you didn’t cry about water under the bridge.  What you could do now and in the future was what you had to focus on and her focus was laser sharp.

      “I am not prideful.  You are mistaking me for Fatcroft.”

      “Pfft.  You’ve got more pride than a party of lions.  But, in fairness, so does your brother.  Now, where is a nice place to find something pretty to bring home with me?”

      “I have no idea.”

      “Well, get one, because I want something lovely to show off when we’re back at home.”

      “You could simply take me.”

Sherlock had never forgotten the sound of his adopted mother’s unique combination of light giggle and goose honk that was her laugh, but was astounded how greatly it affected him now.  Only John’s particularly-pleasing laugh was in the same strata of agreeability.

      “Done!  I’ll bundle you in my luggage and show you about on my arm.  Everyone will think I got lucky on my little holiday and Graham’s a touch more open-minded than they ever knew.”

      “He may wear John on his arm.”

      “Perfect!  Oh, won’t that make for waggy tongues when the ladies have lunch.  You always have such wonderful ideas, Sherlock.”

      “Genius.”

      “Not a thing I’ll ever forget…”

__________

      “Oh my god… I am _not_ cut from the right cloth for this.”

      “Gregory, they are _your_ parents and you will not attempt to shift the responsibility of their entertaining fully to me.”

      “Please.”

      “No.”

      “I’ll pay you.”

      “You are well aware that we must conserve as much of your financial reserves as possible.”

      “I… fuck.  Alright, but, pleeeeeeease…”

Mycroft patted the fake-weeping Greg on his head, which was nestled against Mycroft’s chest in their bed, and felt a tremendous glow of contentment at their coziness.  A long day of playing host to his putative in-laws and, now, soothing the expected juvenility of his Gregory, who was behaving much as he always had when he had to be a ‘good’ son for any substantial period of time.

      “You had only to host your father for a few hours, then watch your football match with him and John until we shared dinner and a lively evening of cards.  I see precisely naught that is onerous in any of that.”

      “All of it.  All of it was honorous.”

      “Onerous.”

      “Tomato, tomahto.  And, tomorrow, I’ve got to keep my eye on them and do the twenty million things you have me doing for your weird pagan ritual…”

      “Our village fete is not a pagan ritual.”

      “You didn’t say it wasn’t weird.”

      “I have no process to effectively quantify ‘weird.’ “

      “You know it’s weird.  Everyone who sees everyone else every single day all gather in one spot to sing, dance and engage in strange and arcane contests.  Weird!”

      “Untrue.  And your assistance has been incalculably valuable.  The lauds you have received for your labors…”

      “Mostly from you.”

      “Untrue, part deux.”

      “That rhymed!  See… pagan rituals are all about spells and rhymes and the like.  I knew you were lying.”

      “Regardless, you shall don your ritualistic robes and perform whatever chants or dances are required of you.”

The rude noise tickled the hairs on Mycroft’s chest and had him laughing, which was very much Greg’s intention.

      “Fine!  Add that to my already enormous list.”

      “I shall tell your mother you view her as enormous.  I doubt you will enjoy the result.”

      “You would, too, you evil pagan ritual-runner.  Once again, I’ve lost the battle _and_ the war.”

      “Huzzah!  I do enjoy ending a day on a victorious note.  What… what shall be my prize?”

Greg smiled into Mycroft’s warm skin, gave it a kiss, then rolled to lay on his back.

      “Me.”

      “Hmmmm… this is truly a lofty reward; however, your parents are resting but a short distance away.”

      “Then… I suppose you’ll have to make certain I don’t make any noise.”

Greg knew, absolutely knew, he’d never grow tired of that particular flare that lit in Mycroft’s eyes when they both were in the mood for a special bit of fun.  Sometimes, the mood was for sweet and gentle.  Sometimes, the mood was for him to take the lead.  Sometimes… oh, sometimes, the mood was for something far more fiery and his Mycroft was positively intoxicating when he was burning with that particular fire…

      “That can easily be arranged.”

Which Mycroft proved by quickly rising from the bed to obtain a cloth from the bath and use it to fashion a gag which he carefully checked for comfort and safety before standing straight and glaring down at his gleeful lover.

      “Hmmm… you seem very apt to disobey tonight.  I believe I shall have to take steps.”

Greg’s cock had already been hardening, but the pace quickened at Mycroft’s words and Mycroft making short work of removing Greg’s pyjamas.

      “Remain still, Gregory.”

Now, Greg’s erection was full, rock solid and throbbing sharply as his partner used other cloths and one of Greg’s shirts to bind his limbs to the bedposts.

      “There.  That will ensure your good behavior.  Such a wicked thing you are, which likely explains the incubus-like nature of your beauty.  The devilry in your blood is writ clearly on your seductive, incomparable features and extremely-tantalizing body.  Verily, you are temptation made flesh.  Scandalous… simply scandalous.”

A strong slap to Greg’s inner thigh made both men happy for the gag, as Greg’s moan would have sounded loud in the room otherwise.

      “Very, very wicked indeed.”

Trailing his fingers lightly across the reddened patch of skin on Greg’s thigh, Mycroft continued upwards to lightly touch his lover’s balls, which prompted Greg to arch upwards to beg for more contact.

      “Gregory, remember who is in charge here.  You shall receive what I see fit to give and what I give will depend upon your conduct.”

Which Mycroft knew, if Greg’s limbs were not bound, would be precisely scripted to gain him the rewards only the naughtiest of boys could receive.  Such a libidinous lover he had found and that was a blessing he would never, ever, take for granted.

      “For example, if you lie still and are properly obedient, you will receive this…”

Mycroft took Greg’s swollen cock in his mouth and began a slow, gentle sucking, that was its own form of torture since Mycroft kept both the speed and pressure at levels that served to make Greg ache for more, which was not yet to be forthcoming.  And Mycroft made certain he could feel Greg’s muscles trembling from trying to control the impulse to simply arch upwards into his mouth before he pulled away and ran a tender hand through Greg’s hair.

      “Hmmm… you did very well, my dear.  Very well, indeed.  In fact, I am so pleased I shall award you something special.  I had thought to save this for another time, but I believe you have earned it.”

Greg’s puzzled eyes made Mycroft smile, as did Mycroft’s own knowledge that a prim and proper vicar should not have certain things hidden away in his bedroom, but _some_ prim and proper vicars did not find sexual urges something to be suppressed.

Reaching far to the back of the lowest drawer of his dresser, Mycroft drew out a small bottle of lube and a slim vibrator that had given him many pleasant nights when he had naught but himself to satisfy the longings in his body.  That his lover’s eyes were now completely unpuzzled and, in fact, highly anticipative, satisfied other longings, and these had found no outlet before this entrancing man stepped back into his life.

      “I see you are eager for your reward.  Excellent.  Let me not tarry, then.”

Quickly slicking his fingers, Mycroft made short work of stretching Greg’s tight ring of muscle ever so slightly so that the vibrator slid into his arse with just a touch of sting, something that was certain to please his beloved.

      “Now, now, Gregory… continue to lie still.  While I find your body’s contortions most fascinating to study, that is not what I desire now.  I choose, tonight, to observe your ability to still yourself, regardless of what you experience.  And, of course, you shall not release without my express permission. Do not disappoint me, Gregory.”

Turning the vibrator to a low setting, Mycroft smiled as Greg drew in a steadying breath and smiled wider as that breath faltered when Mycroft started, slowly to run his hand under Greg’s hard cock to stroke the lightly-haired skin of his lower belly.

      “I can feel the vibrations through your flesh.  A most pleasing sensation.”

As was his Gregory’s furnace-hot skin.  So very warm and perfectly scented with the aroma of male lust.  And how beautifully did that aroma bloom as he moved his hand down to lightly stroke below his dearest’s scrotum and enjoy better the feel of both the vibrator’s actions and his Gregory’s struggle to stay as still as possible.

      “Very good, my dear.  However, this, as they say, is the easy part.  Do prepare yourself.”

Turning the vibrator to a higher level, Mycroft smirked at the small peep of surprise that made its way through the gag and that his lover’s muscles went rock solid for a moment from the shock.

      “Hmmmm… perhaps that is not a sufficient challenge for someone so inured to sexual pleasure.  I must rectify that.”

Greg’s widened eyes screamed ‘NO!’, but were properly noted by Mycroft as not the sort of objection that meant stop their play or that he was, truly, at his limit.  Therefore, the leisurely, languid stroking of Greg’s cock was not likely, yet, to send his lover into an orgasm, which would upset his Gregory far, far more than it would him and that was not, for any reason, acceptable.

      “Very good, Gregory.  How admirably you obey my wants.  Your body trembling, desperate to writhe from the sensations, yet you resist.  Utterly breathtaking.”

Leaning over, Mycroft gave Greg’s nipple a small kiss, then let it shift to a bite that increased in force until he could feel his partner panting rapidly to stay in control as the sharp surge of pain-laced pleasure flowed through him, exactly in the manner Greg craved when the mood struck.

      “Ah…. delicious, as always.  And how easily does your flavor quicken my passion.  I believe I may need to take care of that little issue.”

Because his Gregory was fast approaching the limit of his restraint.  Reducing, again, the setting on the vibrator would only buy Mycroft a few extra minutes of time, however, that was more than sufficient for his purposes.

      “I expect you watch me, Gregory.  Your eyes on me while I partake of your own beauty is something I greatly desire.”

Drawing his own hard, demanding cock from his pyjama trousers, Mycroft began stroking himself, letting his eyes wander over Greg’s body, astonished, as always, that a man as strong, aggressive and virile as his Gregory willingly submitted to him for these occasions and that the arousal they both experienced from it was more powerful that he could ever have dreamed.

      “Entrancing… I am mesmerized by your form, Gregory and the things I wish to do with it.  And everything I wish to do, I _shall_ do, in the course of time.  How anxiously I anticipate, for example, seeing you wear lovely pink stripes across your skin that I have placed there myself…”

Greg’s deep groan and excited shudder was such an erotic image that Mycroft’s orgasm sparked and he moaned softly as the tremors rolled through his body and his semen splashed heavily onto Greg’s belly and chest.

      “So… so perfect is my Gregory… and so obedient, as well.  It is time, I feel, that you receive a final reward for pleasing me to this degree…”

Taking Greg’s cock in hand once more, Mycroft set a quick pace of stroking and nudged the vibrator so it pressed directly on Greg’s prostate, grinning wickedly as Greg’s muffled shriek hit his ears.

      “Just a few moments more, Gregory.  Show me how well you can control yourself.  It shall be difficult, but I know you will not fail me.”

The vibrator was dialed higher once more, and Mycroft drank in the sight of Greg’s body shaking to maintain control, as well as the primal noises that sounded even more delightful through the makeshift gag.  However satisfying it was, though, the time had arrived to draw their evening fully to a close.

      “Now, Gregory… come for me, my dear.”

Greg’s body immediately stiffened and the raw shout that the gag barely contained echoed off the walls in the room as Greg added a large quantity of his own semen to Mycroft’s release, thoroughly wetting his skin with shiny pearls that stoked the residual fires of Mycroft’s arousal to the point he considered planning a second round of passion, but decided that was something best left for another day when they had more time and opportunity for his lover’s screams to be more… ear shattering.

As Greg’s body began to relax, Mycroft removed the vibrator, released the lightly-trembling limbs and untied the gag, tossing it on the floor before kissing the man he loved with a warmth and depth that threatened to make Greg’s already-shaky emotions fracture into pieces.

      “I love you, Mycroft.  I can’t ever tell you how much, I don’t have any words to do it, but I love you and I’m so happy… that first night in the church, I was so scared you’d throw me out and… shit, listen to be babble…”

Climbing into bed next to Greg, Mycroft used one of the former bindings to wipe Greg’s chest well enough to put an arm around him and draw Greg close to his own spent form.

      “I could not do that, my love.  You have lived in my heart for far too long.  It is yours now, you own it, as you do my body and soul.  I give them all to you and ask nothing in return but that you gain from them even a small measure of the joy you grant to me.”

Another long, tender kiss followed and both men knew that it was the kiss that cemented their pact to spend the rest of their lives in each other’s arms.  Words weren’t necessary, no formal vows need be taken, though that might occur, at some point, to satisfy those in their lives that would be made happy by such a thing, but _they_ did not need them.  They had each other and that was all they would ever need, no matter what he future might bring.

      “You do, love.  You make me happier than I’ve ever been in this world.  Except, for one little thing…”

      “A more thorough cleansing?”

      “You are a very smart man.”

      “Might I be smart enough to suggest a shared shower?”

      “A hot shower, fresh pyjamas and back into this cozy bed for a good night’s sleep… that vaults from smart to pure genius.”

      “Though we shall not inform Sherlock of that fact.”

      “And have his shrieking spoil my afterglow?  Fuck that.”

      “Something you might enjoy at some point?”

      “What?  Oh!  Oh… you fucking me is something I would absolutely enjoy.”

      “Then I foresee a very pleasant night for us in the near future.”

      “You know exactly how to make me happy, Mr. Holmes.”

      “Thank you.  I shall endeavor to use my talent only for good.”

      “Not always, though, right?”

Mycroft returned Greg’s pointed grin and ran a finger along his lover’s hot, sweaty skin.

      “Perish the thought.  Sometimes, the good is best accomplished by being bad.  Very, very bad, indeed.”

      “Have I told you I love you?”

      “Perhaps, but the very, very bad are known for being hard of hearing.”

      “Hard in other ways, too.”

      “Most certainly.  Some more stimulating than others.”

      “We’re not talking about maths are we?  For the record, I do not find maths stimulating, no matter how hard the problems might be.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and rolled them again at Greg’s giggling.  Hot shower, clean pyjamas and a cozy night’s sleep… the imp with whom he would share all of that only served to make all of that more enticing.  Imps were generally not known for such munificence, but he had, apparently, stumbled upon one with a surprisingly good heart.  As long as mathematics was kept far away from the day’s agenda…


	23. Chapter 23

      “I am in agony.”

      “Agony requires more screaming, Sherlock, love.”

Sherlock nodded at his adopted mother’s statement and John smirked at how some people could work within Sherlock’s unique nature and others were completely stymied and frustrated by it.

      “Perhaps, but I prefer a polite agony when I am surrounded by an army of ancient females who are armed with ridiculously large handbags.”

      “Yeah, there’s a lot of the old dears about, but they seem happy enough, so I think your tender head is safe for now.  Oh, your brother did a fine job with this, I have to say.  It’s… it’s just like what you see on the telly!”

Sherlock’s death rattle as he looked over the large expanse of villagers and visitors milling about the culmination of their hard work brought another smirk to John’s face since he knew that Sherlock had his own measure of pride in a job well done.  This _was_ a fairly amazing thing to see, actually.  Their amateur construction and hastily done this or that wasn’t really what a person would notice.  The activity and laughter, silly games and contests, things to buy, things to do, things to eat… it wasn’t surprising that the fete drew visitors and plumped the village and vicarage coffers nicely.  It was… sweet, for lack of a more manly, rugged term.  You didn’t get a lot of sweet in London or other cities, so this was a refreshing change of pace.

      “Mycroft has promised I do not have to participate in anything that I do not approve, which means, I do not have to participate in anything whatsoever.”

      “Bollocks!  You’re going to put in a guess for the sweets jar, but you’ll get it right and that’s not fair for the non-genius people so you’ll only give it to me and John, but there are other little games we can play that being a genius doesn’t give you an unfair advantage.  Ooh!  And I want some candy floss.  There’s a bloke over there doing that.”

Knowing Sherlock’s taste for sugar very, very well, John wasn’t surprised by the tall, dark figure beginning a menacing march in that direction nor the motherly giggle that followed in his wake.

      “I see my brother has been ensnared by the scent of spun sugar.”

      “Naturally.  The question will be who gets theirs first, him or Greg’s mum.”

      “Oh, I have no doubt Sherlock shall be chivalrous, which will potentially ensure he be rewarded by a portion of her share, in addition to his.”

      “Ooh, hadn’t thought of that.  Smart.  In the meantime, anything you need done at the moment, Mr. In Charge of Things?”

      “I am only one among many responsible for our annual fete, John.”

      “Then, why do all of the ‘many responsible’ clear everything with you before anything happens?”

      “I… they appreciate my input.”

      “Pfft.  In any case, if I’m not needed for anything specific, then I’ll make certain Sherlock doesn’t scare all the innocent children away from their games and petting the sheep or eat all the candy floss so the same little children bawl the day away and drown out the music.”

      “Both the children and our ears will be most appreciative.”

Watching John stride off towards the two sugar-consuming family members, Mycroft cast an eye about for the other two, finally spotting them near the puppet-show stage, putting up a sign to announce the performance times.  Taking a moment to steady himself from the emotional rush, Mycroft reflected upon this time last year.  He had been content, that much was certain.  Content and proud of what his congregation had achieved.  The coming-together of their village, despite the various squabbles, troubles and grudges to celebrate together and raise needed funds to support their community’s well-being.

Now, however, he was happy.  Not the happiness that contentment brings, but the deeper happiness that comes from having found more than simply a place to do his work and a community that accepted him and the work he did.  He had a family, now, a man who loved him, and that drove the roots he had been laying into this patch of soil deeper and deeper every single day.  He could plant roots elsewhere, of course, and, perhaps, that would become necessary, however… it was this feeling of love and belonging that had eluded him since he was a child.  Now, it was gifted to him by the most wonderful, unique, roguish…

      “You.  You live here?”

Mycroft whirled at the sound of the unfamiliar voice and found himself staring at two men who… well, it was improper to affix to a person a derogatory label without first having genuine knowledge _of_ the person, but… dash it all, they looked like thugs, so it was the only descriptor to leap to mind.

      “I do.  I am Mycroft Holmes, vicar of this church.   How might I be of service?”

      “You know Greg Lestrade?”

All alarms were now blaring at full volume and the flashing lights were certain to give him a headache, but now was not the time to outwardly acknowledge the Defcon status of his mental processes.

      “I do.  Though… it is not an acquaintance that has been active for many years.”

True.  That was, in no manner, a lie, so his guardian angel could keep its tut-tutting finger fully at bay.

      “You seen him lately?”

Hmmm… the definition of ‘lately’ was most fluid and, since it had been a full two minutes or more since he had laid eyes on his beloved…

      “No, I’m afraid I have not.  May I ask why you might believe otherwise?”

      “His parents are here.  And you seem to know them fairly well.”

Oh dear… apparently, there had been more eyes on Gregory’s parents than they had expected…

      “A happy truth, I must confess.  Gregory’s father made the journey to our little hamlet some time ago to make his own inquiries about his son’s whereabouts and… we had been close in my youth, a bond both he and his wife were eager to rebuild.  I am most delighted that they came today to participate in our festivities.  Will you have time to take in our amusements?  They are not as sophisticated as some might prefer for a day of relaxation and frolic, however, we find them most suitable.”

Yes, thugs, do look about with an ‘ugh’ look upon your faces, so I gain confidence that you will not sully further our lovely village with protracted exposure to your presence.  Or… take time to question the attendees about your quarry.

      “Maybe some other time.”

      “We would welcome the visit.  Do bring your families, as well.  In fact, there is a rather lively Christmas pageant each year featuring our children’s choir and a grand diversity of enactments of various Christmas themes.  Perhaps that is more to your liking.”

You look positively ill!  How marvelous…

      “Yeah, ok.  Do you know where Greg is?”

At the moment, since my back is turned from most of the proceedings, I can confidently state…

      “No, I’m afraid not.  His father told me he had, as they say, fallen off the radar, but, from what I understand… Gregory has led a troubled life and, perhaps, this is not entirely unexpected.”

Truth, truth and more truth… the collar around his neck remained pristine and white.

      “Troubled… one way to say it.  Fucking wanker is another.”

      “I would appreciate a small moderation of language, given the presence of any number of children in the vicinity.”

At least you have the small mote of decency to look chagrined.  And I shall not impart that dear Gregory’s own salty language is found by the village children to be riotously funny when he somewhat forgets the age and innocence of his audience.

      “Sorry.  Got any idea when he might go?”

      “If not to a loved one?  No, and I would have told his father immediately, had that been the case.  However, I am informed that Gregory has not returned to London.”

Bountiful bouquets of truth… verily, there should be a prize awarded to me for my veracity in the face of adversity.

      “Yeah, bastard’s in hiding from… ok, you sure you don’t know where he is?”

Still looking away from any possible sighting of Gregory…

      “I do not, though, I believe, now, that I wish he _were_ here, if only that I could provide guidance for his tortured soul.”

      “Ha!  Yeah, he’d love that.  We’re going to look about a bit.  That ok with you?”

No, not in the slightest, however, open declaration of that fact would not be wise.

      “Of course!  If you are hungry, most of the food and drinks offerings are this way and I can attest to the quality of what is being proffered.  Do remember that all profits from our efforts are earmarked for good works, so I hope you shall spend somewhat lavishly.  In fact… here is this year’s advertisement for our gathering listing the projects we hope to move forward.  Direct donations are also most welcome.”

Said with my most ingratiating smile that… yes, has you reconsidering your decision.

      “Um… maybe later.

      “Of course.  I shall be happy to escort you about the grounds if…”

      “You’ve… you’ve got other things to do... we’ll just get a spot of tea or something and… yeah, it’s alright, you go on about your business.”

Very well, but I shall happily stay in your field of view and wave periodically so your level of discomfort does not diminish in the slightest.  The fundraising fervor of a dedicated man of the cloth is, apparently, a rather imposing weapon. Something, certainly, to be remembered…

      “As you wish.  Do enjoy your visit.”

And while you move that way, I shall saunter lackadaisically _this_ way to intercept one wing of the Lestrade-Holmes family gang.

      “Mycroft, love!  Oh, this is the good stuff, it really is.  Some of that candy floss they sell is just rubbish, but this is the right thing for a beautiful day like this.”

Mycroft would have given his eye teeth for a camera in his pocket to take a snap of his adopted mother with a wisp of candy floss waving like a small flag in her hair.

      “Mr. Weber does an exemplary job each year providing on the finest to our visitors. I am very happy you approve.  John, if I might have a word?”

Take your glare elsewhere, brother, there are important matters with which to attend.

      “Ummm… sure.”

Following Mycroft a few steps away from the other two, John felt his military instincts rising at the abrupt shift in Mycroft’s expression from gentle, pleasant vicar, to something far more steely and worrying.

      “Do you see the two gentlemen walking towards the hook-a-duck game?”

      “Who… oh.  Yeah, I do…”

And understood Mycroft’s concern about them.  Even from here, the two looked out of place and that wasn’t what their day needed.  Well, if Mycroft wanted them escorted away, he came to the right person.

      “They were asking about Gregory’s whereabouts.”

Still the right person, but one not entirely certain what to do now, because… fuck.

      “That’s not good.”

      “No.  Find Gregory and see he remains out of sight until they leave.  They know Gregory’s parents are here, so I doubt they are in any danger, however…”

      “I’m on it.”

John started towards the last place he’d seen Greg and hoped that the size of the crowd would keep the berk out of view until he could drag him away.

      “Where is John going?  Was he finally overcome with disgust from being within your slitheringly-sanctimonious sphere?”

      “Actually, brother, he is simply…”

Given Greg’s mother was merrily examining the knitted caps and scarves that were for sale by the needle-wielding mavens who met twice a week to knit and share the juiciest bits of village gossip, Mycroft decided candor was his best option for ensuring Sherlock did not accidentally make the situation worse than it was already.

      “… John is finding Gregory and seeing that he stays out of sight while those two men are present.”

Mycroft subtly nodded towards his targets and was happy Sherlock didn’t loudly bark out a demand to know their identity.

      “I know one of them.”

      “What?  Brother, we must hide you, now.  The fewer connections between me and Gregory they learn…”

      “I did not say he knew _me_.”

      “Pardon?”

      “I have seen his photograph among Anderson’s files.  He is an associate of Dimmock.”

      “Damn.  It seems he is eager to find Gregory… apparently, those two followed Gregory’s parents here, so they must have been under surveillance.”

      “Likely.  If Anderson is sowing rumors and stoking distrust about Dimmock, he would seek to find the one person who could openly dispute his story about the events that prompted Lestrade’s flight.”

      “You believe Gregory is in danger.”

      “That has never been in question.”

      “True, I meant an additional danger from this new turn of events.”

      “Not necessarily.  They may simply be pursuing what they thought was a new development.  If it leads nowhere, then they will continue to look in other directions.”

      “Regardless… we must be vigilant.”

      “And move quickly on our own plans.”

      “If you have a moment away from Katherine, phone Constable Anderson and inform him of this news.  Also, gain what you can from him of any further actions that might be planned against Gregory.”

      “I will.  As well as see if there is any way to move up our timetable.”

      “I suspect that cannot happen, but… it would do no harm to ask.  And, Sherlock… please do not say anything to…”

      “If you are preparing to imply that I would ruin Mumsie’s day, then you are stupid.  No, I rescind that since you are demonstrably stupid without even that demerit on your record.”

      “Lovely.  Oh look, your date for the day has found for you a new hat.  Do enjoy the warmth it provides.”

Given it was as thick as the walls of a nuclear bunker and made from the famously-coarse wool of Mr. Larson’s sheep, Sherlock’s enjoyment would be simply joyful to watch.  And it was such a charming shade of purple, too…

__________

      “Mycroft!”

The concern threaded through his lover’s voice distressed the vicar, but comforted him, also, since the concern was for _him_.

      “Gregory, I take it John informed you that our unwanted guests have departed.”

      “They didn’t hurt you or anything, did they?”

      “Good heavens, no!  They simply made their inquiries and pointedly avoided speaking to me again, for fear that I would pry their wallets from their pockets and help myself to their funds.”

      “Ok… ok, that’s good.  If they had hurt you… done anything to upset you or…”

Mycroft took his lover in a long hug and hoped he was calming his Gregory’s emotions because there was little doubt that the man in his arms would gladly steal a car, drive to London and commit indescribable harm to the two men, wearing a bright and satisfied smile while he did it, if there had been a single hair out of place on _this_ particular head.

      “I am fine, Gregory; the worry must, instead, be for you.”

      “Fuck that.  I can handle myself if those fuckers come sniffing about again.  It’s you and the rest I have to worry about.  Dad said they looked like a couple of right bruisers.”

      “Thugs, unquestionably, however, they caused no problem for the short period they were here and, in truth, purchased a hearty quantity of foodstuffs, so their visit cannot, wholly, be called a negative one.”

      “Good to know they tossed a few quid our direction, rotten arseholes.  Sherlock talked to Anderson, too.  Seems Dimmock might be considering some new move, maybe trying to haul himself up a few rungs of the ladder or brokering some large deal and setting himself up as independent.  The picture’s not very clear, but a few have noticed he seems to be wearing a larger chip in his shoulder lately than usual.  None of that would be helped if I showed up and detailed how he’s been cheating certain people to feather his own nest.  Help him into hospital with a few broken legs and a fractured skull, but that’s about all, especially with the evidence Sherlock and Anderson pulled together from his financial records.”

      “Then our task is even more pressing.  I expect that further power in his hands will make him harder to battle against when you make your claims.”

      “Maybe.  Right now, I just want to… get this off my head!  I want to be able to get that fucking little voice out of my head that keeps reminding me that I’m hiding away like a coward, putting you and others at risk to save my sorry skin.”

      “Do not think like that, Gregory.”

      “They were watching Mum and Dad, Mycroft.  Watching… but who’s to say that might not change?  Do something to one of them to try and flush me out of the hedges?”

      “Pish-tosh.  That shall not happen.”

      “Why not?  Why wouldn’t that happen?  Your god going to protect them?  I haven’t seen him stepping up to the challenge very often, frankly, to give the bastard _any_ benefit of the doubt.”

Mycroft’s long sigh made Greg kick himself mentally, but this was an old war they’d waged many times and neither side was prepared to move on the issue.  That being said, he didn’t have to use it as a weapon, knowing he was hurting someone who didn’t deserve it.

      “I’m sorry, love.  I am, you know that.  It’s… I know these fuckers, Mycroft.  And I know Dimmock.  He won’t hesitate long doing something to Mum and Dad if he’s already getting greedy and desperate and thought it was a good strategy to get me in the open.  And if that strategy ends in me at the bottom of the Thames, there’ll be nobody to tell the tale of how I got there and how many of our, admittedly few and far between, lines he crossed to make that happen.”

      “My apologies, as well, Gregory.  You have more expertise on this than do I and I should not make such dismissive statements given the gravity of the situation.  Did Constable Anderson have anything further to report?”

      “A bit, yeah.  He used some suggestions from Sherlock to go farther along Dimmock’s money trail, without raising suspicion, and he’s got a solid case against the prat.  Plan C might be, if I can’t _fully_ convince my lot that I didn’t betray them, then getting Dimmock arrested and tossed in jail for a few years might buy me some goodwill, enough that it could erase a bit of my debt.  That might lead to a negotiation about what to do to erase the rest of it.  That does happen, actually.  Everyone on my side of the fence has fucked over people they’ve worked with on a deal and took their lumps before squaring things some way.”

      “Then… why have you not simply worked towards that?”

      “Because that only tends to happen when you’re on the same level as the other person you kicked in the bollocks.  When you’re lower on the ladder, it’s more a betrayal since there’s… it’s strange to say, but loyalty is involved.  You run in one circle and you fuck a counterpart in another circle, it’s shitty business, but it’s still business.  You fuck someone within _your_ circle and it’s bad.  Dimmock, me and others run among different circles, hiring out here and there, but when you work for one person, your loyalty is for them.  When you work for another, it’s for _that_ person and fuck the other guy because he’s not paying you right now.”

      “That is… deplorable.”

      “Yeah, but doesn’t change that it’s the truth.  Flexing a little muscle by taking care of the thorn in my side and one that _they’re_ starting to question, too… it might help.  Like I said, Plan C.”

      “Scheme C.”

      “Fuck you and the unicorn you rode in on.”

      “Not now, I’m afraid, because I must present myself for the tombola to announce the morning’s winners and your next puppet performance begins in ten minutes.  You need to change backdrop, do you now?”

      “Shit!  Yeah, down comes the forest scene and up goes the sea.  I’ll go and pry Dad away from the sausages and get started.  Mrs. Hudson was going to be the Pretty Prawn, but they asked her to help with the cake sale, instead, since Mrs. Wickes has a bit of a headache and needed a lie down for an hour or so.”

      “Yes, she does suffer those with unfortunate frequency.  In any case, your father shall be the prettiest prawn in the sea.”

      “He thinks so, at least.  And, Mycroft… we talked about it and… Mum doesn’t need to…”

      “Your mother shall hear not a single word about today’s turn of events until you see fit to inform her.  But, I do suggest you do that and not attempt to keep matters a secret.  As upset as she might be hearing your story, she will be more upset believing you have, again, attempted to hide from her the truths of your life.”

      “Tonight, when we’ve shut this down for the day.  That’s when we can all chat about it.”

      “Very good.  Well… onward and upward.”

      “Want me to put a saddle on your unicorn, so you can ride through the crowd in style?”

      “Fantasia need not be bothered for such a thing, I feel.”

      “Fantasia?”

      “A resplendent creature.”

      “Fantasia?”

      “Yes.  Pray tell, what would _you_ name a unicorn?”

      “Corny.”

      “I am leaving now, Gregory.”

      “Was it something I said?”

      “You are most fortunate your appearance, also, is resplendent.”

      “Yeah… I won’t even bother to argue.”

__________

      “Oh, Greg… we’re so sorry!”

Tissues appeared from various directions and all were snatched to mop the deluge of tears flowing after the day officially ended for the merry gang and the discussion of the day’s less enjoyable events began.

      “Mum… it’s _not_ your fault.”

      “They followed us!  Of course, it’s our fault!”

      “Now, now Katie, love… Mycroft handled things and they toddled off with nothing to report but the tea being served was certain to put the wind in your sails.  We didn’t miss even a single puppet show for the little ferrets!  And they didn’t follow us, certainly, or they’d have had plenty of time to find out from the people here that Greg was warming Mycroft’s bed.  Probably asked about at work or on our street and took the scenic ride on their own when they’d found out where we’d gone.  Besides… if I didn’t honestly didn’t believe it was sorted out, I wouldn’t still be looking forward to spinning you about the floor tomorrow night at the dance.”

And to prove his point, Greg’s dad jumped up from his seat and took his wife for a preliminary spin around the vicarage sitting room, then literally spun her to Greg to continue on while he turned attention to Mrs. Hudson, who snorted, but permitted a spirited tango that had Sherlock gagging himself nearly into the grave.

      “You dance divinely, Martha.  Nothing but air under those petite feet.”

      “You should see me when the music is playing.”

      “Scorching, I wager.”

      “Absolutely.  Watch.”

Trading her partner for Greg’s, Mrs. Hudson showed her full tango skills with Greg’s mother, making Greg very happy that his mother was fully heterosexual, because people who danced that well together… no, stopping that thought right in its tracks.

      “That’s proper dancing, that is!  I may stay here tomorrow, Martha, and watch the match, while the two of you show the village how it’s done.  Katie’d be happy, I wager, that her feet weren’t being trod on every other step by my fumbly feet.”

      “Can’t.  I’ve got a gentleman escorting me already and I have hopes that will lead to _further_ escorting of the dinner, drinks and sexily-pleasant things variety.”

Everyone but John and Greg’s parents looked dumbstruck at Mrs. Hudson’s announcement, but, given that was only Greg, Mycroft and Sherlock, it really did stand to reason.  There _were_ , by far, the most matronly of those in attendance.

      “Mrs. Hudson!”

      “What, you ridiculous vicar?  I’m not a withered old mummy, you know.”

      “They’re toddlers, aren’t they, Martha, dear?  Graham and I have more sex now than we did when we were in our twenties!  Of course, in our twenties, we had to worry about little ears hearing what was going on, what with the walls of our flat being thin as paper, and neither of us wanted the big mouth attached to those little ears telling all the neighbors what was what in the Lestrade family!”

      “Mum!”

      “You’ve scandalized our fragile flower of a son, Katie.  Hand him some of your auction proceeds so he can go and buy a dummy to suck on and have a little pout.”

      “I’m not pouting!”

      “I wish I could, dear, since Greg was the cutest little thing when he was a baby and his dummy was keeping him quiet and happy.  All the money went to helping pay for putting in a new furnace in the church.  Maybe he can use his thumb instead.”

If Greg’s father beamed any brighter with pride at his wife’s showing at the auction, he would have woken people from their beds for miles in all directions.

      “And what a lot of money it was!  Oh, my lady wife was the star of the auction.  And they already started buttering your buns to donate pieces again next year!  If they didn’t see enough this year to get a new furnace for Mycroft’s lovely church, there’s no doubt you’ll help put them over the top next year!”

Greg’s not-pout slipped enough to let his own proud smile begin to shine through.  Mycroft had been right about people coming from all over to have a nice day in the country and, apparently, rich couples who already lived in large houses out in the country were no exception.

      “Oh, stop, Graham.  You’re embarrassing me.”

      “I will not!  I’m going to tell everyone we know in London, too, how my wife had a few posh couples dueling for her art and it was fiercest, bloodies battle I’ve ever seen without an actual drop of blood being shed.”

Tissues came to the fore again as Greg’s mother’s cheeks pinked with happiness and needed a little water to cool the fire.

      “Dad’s right, Mum.  That _was_ an amazing thing to watch.”

Especially with Sherlock tossing out bids like a pro with little winks or flicks of a finger to drive the price even higher, having read the personality of the combatants and deciding they should be penalized another hundred pounds or so for being toffee-nosed.

      “Oh, go on, the both of you.  I’m just happy that all the lovely people I’ve been meeting are a bit closer to not freezing their tits off in the winter when they go to hear our Mycroft spread the good word!”

      “Something for which I am terribly happy, as a sea of pews filled with shivering, blue-skinned congregants puts a decided damper on my Sunday service.”

Giggling at Mycroft’s silliness, Greg’s mother rushed over to give him a hug and the others shared a quick look of relief that her guilt and upset had been pushed aside for now.

      “You’re a prize, Mycroft, really a prize.”

      “Thank you, Mother. Now, though, would you excuse Gregory and me for our evening constitutional?”

      “Oh, Greg wants a chance to unwrap my little prize, does he?”

      “Mum!  That is… Mycroft, let’s go.  Maybe my mother will have matured a bit by the time we get back.”

The ‘those silly, silly toddlers’ look the older generation shared indicated that was a tremendously false hope, but it got Greg and Mycroft out the door without being dragged back into the commentary.

      “They do it on purpose.  They know it’ll niggle like a worm crawling up my arse and they do it anyway.”

      “Ghastly imagery aside, I suspect you are correct, to an extent.  However, we should be happy for them.”

      “Are you happy for Mrs. Hudson?”

      “No, I am utterly aghast and will now be beset with nightmares of the most Boschian variety.”

      “Perfect.  That does sort of describe the worm in my arse image, though.”

      “An astute observation.  I suppose, though, we must soldier on.”

      “Yeah.  They’re not going to change, so we’d best learn to bear it.”

Taking a moment to get their jackets and scarves properly adjusted, Mycroft made extra use of the time to consider broaching something that had been niggling _him_ , though without the assistance of an imaginary worm.

      “Gregory, might I inquire…”

      “Yeah?”

      “The thought flitted through my head that, one day, we shall be able to perpetrate the same atrocity upon _our_ children, but… I have no idea if such a thing is desirable to you.  Having a family, I mean.”

      “Oh… that’s… that’s a good question, actually.  I honestly never gave it any thought since, I suspect, I would never have considered having kids with anyone I’ve been with.  Plus, I never gave much thought to the future, in general.  Just moving day to day, living in the moment.  The most I’ve actually done of looking forward for is my parents, anticipating what they might need and planning for that.”

      “Ah, I see.”

      “But…”

      “Yes?”

      “I can’t say I hate the idea.  Of kids, I mean.  Though, I pity the sprog that has me for a dad.”

      “I think you have many qualities that would be beneficial for the raising of a child.  Provided certain other qualities were kept in check.”

      “Really?  You don’t think I’d make mess of it?”

      “I have observed that all parents do, from time to time, but I do not believe a child would suffer in your care.  In fact, I believe they would have a blessed life from a father as vigorous and playful as you.  Simply look at how the village children already adore you and view you as a trusted adult in their lives.”

      “That doesn’t say a lot, since they also view the Sampson’s ram as a trusted adult.”

      “That is because you told them that it was, in reality, a bewitched farmer who, centuries ago in its Scottish homeland, made unflattering comments about a local sorceress.  Further, only the youngest of your audience hold fast to that to that fairy tale.”

      “That’s true.  I did do that.”

      “Forcing Mr. Sampson to change the name of his ram to Hamish because the children said Christopher did not sufficiently reflect the animal’s Scottish heritage.”

      “The little buggers were fierce about it, too!  Held their breath and everything.  You… you brought this up, so… you want kids, I take it.”

      “Like you, I have never given the matter any substantial thought, however… that is changing.  Many children are in need of a loving home and my heart is beginning to question if the pangs I feel for them are purely charitable or bells tolling a very different tale.”

      “Looks like we have a conversation ahead of us.”

      “Many, most likely.  As it should be for something as important and life altering as becoming parents.”

      “Alright… that’s something we can definitely do.  Talk, I mean.  Until then, maybe we can get a dog to practice with.”

      “Gregory, I hate to inform you, but most parents do not feed their children from bowls on the floor and send them into the yard to attend to personal functions.”

      “I’m already a shit dad!”

      “Worry not, my dear, for we have copious quantities of time to work on the details.”

      “Whew!  That’s good to know.  But, can we still have a dog?”

      “Dogs are a great deal of work, Gregory.  And a great responsibility.”

      “I’ll feed it.”

      “And the walks?  The grooming and training?”

      “Dad’ll do it.”

      “Shall your father also raise our children?”

      “That’s not the worst idea in the world, you have to admit.”

Mycroft laughed softly and gave his grinning lover a kiss, nestling against Greg’s side as Greg slid an arm around him and began walking them away from the vicarage.

      “We shall consider that our alternative plan.”

      “Is this Plan D, now, or E?”

      “As this is a fresh agenda, I feel is it appropriate to begin, again, with ‘A.’  However… plan is such a flaccid word.”

      “No schemes!”

      “I was thinking… plot.”

      “Ooh… the Adoption Plot.  That’s not bad.”

      “Thank you.”

      “The kids live with their grandparents and we don’t have to worry about little ears or big mouths when we’re going at it fast and filthy.”

      “Excellent.  I do adore our synchronistic thinking, my dear.”

      “I do, too.  Whatever that means.  I know… it’s a good thing I’m resplendent.”

      “I also love you for your mind.”

      “But, mostly, my resplendence.  Which probably isn’t a real word.”

      “It is, actually.”

      “Really?  My mind is gaining resplendence being near your synchronistic thinking.”

      “Or something along those lines.”

      “A touch off-footed?”

      “We shall work on it, my dear.”

      “Before or after I suck your cock?”

      “Hmmmm… after, I believe.  I would hate to overtax your mouth when it has such vital work to perform.”

      “Great minds think alike.”

      “Ergo, synchronicity.”

      “English or your cock can suck itself.”

      “Another Boschian image.”

      “My resplendence thanks you.”


	24. Chapter 24

      “Money!”

Greg dove towards the various stacks on Mycroft’s desk and yelped when a flung pen smacked him in the middle of his forehead.

      “I have just completed the initial sorting, Gregory, and I shall not have you disturb my system.”

      “What system?  You put what goes to the bank in one pile and what stays here in another.”

      “Meaning one pile in total.”

      “We get all of it!  Yes!”

      “ _All_ of this goes to the bank.  I must make an accounting, however, of what amounts go towards individual funds, so that their growth, with future contributions, may be monitored.”

      “What’s _our_ fund look like?”

      “The vicarage household account?  The green ledger on the second shelf holds those records.”

      “No, I mean of this… what bit is ours?”

      “Naught.”

      “Funny.  What of this is our part of the take?”

      “Did you really say that, Gregory?”

      “Uh… yeah.”

Mycroft frowned and fixed his lover with a ‘look.’

      “Hey!  Don’t give me that look!  It’s an honest question!”

      “I debate, heavily, the use of the word ‘honest.’ “

      “Why?  We worked hard for all of that.  We’re due some of the bank.”

      “We did charitable work, which was most certainly not for personal gain.”

      “Why not?  All those posh charities pay their board members and the like fat pay packages, so why not us?  We certainly need it more than those greedy bastards.”

      “The money was earned for causes to benefit our community, not our personal purse!”

      “It’s a small purse!  It won’t take much of that load of banknotes to fill it!”

      “Unconscionable!”

      “Perfectly conscionable!”

Mycroft threw his hands in the air and wondered what on Earth had gotten into his lover today.  Gregory was positively felonious!  And distressingly unethical…

      “Ridiculous!  It is my job to benefit my neighbors, not… fleece them.”

      “Who said anything about fleecing?  Just taking our due.”

      “Absolutely not. Gregory Lestrade… I… I had hoped your participation in our annual fete was a demonstration of… affection or, at least, commitment to the village and an honest desire to help those in need.  I see, now, that, to you, this was simply another scheme to enrich yourself.  I am gravely disappointed, Gregory.  Gravely disappointed, indeed.”

      “I’m committed!  I want to help the needy!  Which, in point of fact, describes us very handily.  We’re not exactly flush, you know.  Mrs. Hudson was muttering ‘make do and mend’ yesterday when your trousers got torn on that fencepost, for pity’s sake!”

      “Whether his trousers are new or mended is not the measure of man.”

      “Very philosophical, but doesn’t change that a new pair of trousers for you means we’re eating potatoes and air for dinner for the next month.”

      “Potatoes are most nutritious, so I have no doubt we will endure.”

      “Fifty quid!  Who’ll miss 50 tiny pounds from all of that?”

      “I will!  My conscience would miss it sorely!”

      “Your conscience needs to catch a case of reality.”

      “Your reality needs to catch a case of conscience.”

      “Maybe, but reality is what has me wondering what I have to do without in order to see this house heated during the winter.”

      “When you are gainfully employed, we shall be far better suited, financially, to enjoy both heat and the little incidentals, however, all of that shall be purchased through earnings from useful, legal work.”

      “I did useful, legal work for what seems like a decade for your village knees-up!”

      “As a public service!  For the public good!  Not for an extra pint at the pub!”

      “Pints aren’t fifty quid, you daft bastard!”

      “Principles, Gregory!”

      “Reality, Mycroft!”

      “Dear Lord… guide me in this for I am adrift.”

      “Pfft.  He’s off drinking one of your 50-quid pints in some posh pub and giving the serving angel a tenner for their trouble.”

      “Blasphemy is not aiding your cause in this.”

Normally, seeing Mycroft’s narrow that particular way would have given Greg pause, but his freight train seemed to have a slightly faulty brake.

      “Didn’t expect it to and didn’t mean it to.”

      “Something I do not appreciate in the slightest.  Though you may eschew the teachings of the Almighty, I take great comfort and guidance from them.”

      “And what good’s that done you?  Or anyone, for that matter?  You might try using that brain of yours for a change and not looking to magic and fairytales to solve your problems.”

      “Gregory!

      “Rule Number 6!”

Mycroft’s and Greg’s heads whipped around to glare at Greg’s dad standing in the door of the study, wearing his heaviest expression of fatherly concern.  For a full half-second.

      “Dad!  You’re… you’re not supposed to know the Rules.”

      “Right.  One more thing I’m not supposed to know or do, like shagging your mum.”

The duet of waving of hands to blow away the disgust ticked the older man to no end.

      “Now… Rule Number 6.  Say it.  Both of you.”

      “Fuck you.”

      “That wasn’t on your list, son, except the one you each had of your fondest wishes.  Now, go on.  I can wait all day, you know.  Talking the whole time…”

      “Ugh.  Now you’re trying to kill us, you old fucker.”

      “Speaking of fucking, you know… your mother does this thing where…”

      “WALK AWAY WHEN KNOCKNG HEADS IS ALL WE’RE DOING!”

Two voices shouting loudly would normally be cause for concern, however, the vicarage denizens had become somewhat complacent about such things, of late.

      “There… was that so painful?  That was a good rule and one to remember.  You’re just goading each other right now and won’t make any progress until you have a little time apart to clear your heads so you can try again.  To get that started, Mycroft, you go back to banking and, Greg, you’re coming with me to help fix the Perkins family’s telly.  Luckily, it’s one of the old ones that you can usually get to work with a few bits from the scrapheap.”

This sounded most agreeable to Mycroft, but Greg’s stubbornness, it seemed, was turned to the highest setting.

      “And why are we doing this?”

      “Because it randomly decides it’s going to have some electronic spasm and make everything shimmy like one of those people having a go at doing The Twist.”

      “We, Dad.  We.  Why are _we_ doing this?”

      “Their dad is away in the Navy.”

      “Is it just a house filled with sad-eyed waifs and a wonky telly or is there a competent adult watching over things?”

      “Their mum is there, you daft boy.  And her parents are staying while the dad is keeping our country safe.”

      “Then let one of them bring it to a shop!”

      “Shops cost money and they’ve not got much.  Something to remember - you help people when you can and be grateful when you need a lift up and someone stretches out their hand in your direction.”

      “You’ve been taking lessons from Mr. God-Botherer, haven’t you?”

      “ _Gave_ him lessons, is more like it.  Or… ok, maybe I just told him that _his_ lessons were actually good ones, despite the shit he saw going on around him and they were what we _should_ strive for in this ugly world, but it still means you’re learning telly repair today while Mycroft gets that windfall sorted.  Then, you two can have a chat about reality versus nobility or whatnot.  Let’s go…”

Being pulled along by his ear was just as frustrating to Greg now as it had been when he was young, and it was only the need to toss his son a jacket that loosened the paternal death grip.

      “Fuck me, Dad… you’re in a mood today, evil bastard.”

A shove was Greg’s answer to that cheek and it scooted him out of the vicarage while his father politely closed the door behind them.

      “Look, Son of Evil Bastard… I’ve been married long enough to know the sound of an argument that’s veering into ‘not speaking to you’ land.  With experience, you’ll learn it, too, but, this one time, I decided to keep you from sleeping on the sofa, which is never a lot of fun, but worse still when you have to see the other person the next morning and face the ‘who’s going to apologize first’ bit of awkwardness.  Here’s a hint… if you started it, apologize first.  If they started it, but you used a truly nasty hit to end it, apologize first.  If they apologize first, you be decent and accept it.  Add in what you did to make matters worse and apologize for that, yourself.  If you’re still a snarly bit of business, then you deserve them packing your bag and sending you onto the lawn.”

      “I wasn’t being nasty!”

      “Did you go after Mycroft’s faith?”

      “I… yeah.”

Which Greg’s dad knew very well would be a savage blow, because it had always been the one to truly hurt young Mycroft.  And one that made his Greg eat himself alive with guilt when the haze cleared and he realized how terrible he’d been to his friend.

      “And, by that deflated tone in your voice, I take it you see the line you stepped over and shit on for good measure.”

      “I… yeah.  I do.  He went after my character, though.”

      “You’re a criminal, son.  There’s not a lot of character there to go after.”

      “Oh, well, thanks for that!”

      “Got an argument to the contrary?”

      “Yes!… no.  Even I know the only character I’ve got is when I’m starring in a puppet show.  And, I suppose I _was_ being a bit of an arse wanting to keep some of that money for ourselves.  Just a bit of an arse, mind you.  We worked bloody hard with nothing to show for it but…”

      “The sincere thanks of everyone at the fete and those who are going to see a little extra help in their lives because of it.  All those new books for the library, village green sees a few things improved, the old people can find more benches to rest on when their toddling takes the wind out of them, church gets a boost to its furnace fund…”

      “I know what the money’s going to be used for, Dad.”

      “Then why are you grousing?  A man should be proud to have helped make that happen.  All it cost you, lazy bastard, was a bit of sweat and swearing, both of which are good for what ails you.”

      “Money.  Money is good for what ails me.”

Money, money, money… that seemed to be his son’s theme for the day.  The question was why.

      “Alright, then.  Just how skint are you right now?”

      “Uh….”

      “Be honest or it’ll be my boot up your backside.”

      “Fine!  In truth, I’m not skint at all, I just can’t put my hands on any of it at the moment.”

So, at least his son wasn’t without something to put groceries in the pantry, but having it out of reach wasn’t going to bring those groceries home, either.

      “Eyes on your bank account?”

      “Most probably.”

      “Alright… that’s not a thing I would like to have happen to me, and I see why you’d be frustrated by it, but why’d it grow a dragon’s head and start to breathe fire today?”

      “All I wanted was to buy a fucking bottle of wine!”

And since Greg wasn’t much of a wine drinker, that wine had been for someone else.  Someone his son felt he’d let down by not having it to present.

      “And you didn’t have the cash.”

      “Mycroft worked so hard for his big event… I thought maybe I could stroll him out somewhere lovely and share a little wine, let him relax a bit from all of that.  You saw him last night, Dad… he was so happy with what he’d done, but utterly knackered.  I’m surprised he was able to stay on his feet!”

      “Didn’t stop you dancing with him, though.”

Greg’s brain shot back like a speeding bullet to the previous night and nothing he could do would stop that memory from casting a little sunlight on his gloom.  Awful music playing, the last bit of baking and whatnot people had made for the fete available to nibble and… it was glorious.  His Mycroft floating through the people, looking like a king, despite the extra lines on his face and tired smile from working himself to the bone for the fete.  If the daft bastard wouldn’t simply sit and rest for awhile, then he decided he might as well put Mycroft’s meandering to good use and strode up, bowed and asked the gorgeous man if he could have the next dance.  Mycroft’s rosy flush was a thing to behold and it only grew rosier when those nearby applauded and coaxed him onto the dancefloor where, in a final bit of luck, a slow, romantic tune was playing.

Holding Mycroft in his arms, dancing with him like any couple might, Mycroft’s body pressing against his… it was the greatest feeling in the world.  A no-name dance accompanied by a tinny tune in a little sleepy corner of England… it had been magical.

      “No, it didn’t.”

      “Your mum was so happy to see that.  Got a few snaps of the two of you, too.”

      “Wonderful.”

      “We think so.  Why’d the wine, or lack thereof, make you worry about money, though?  You know it’s temporary.”

      “It didn’t, exactly.  It was just… I wanted to give Mycroft a quiet night tonight, just him and me and there wasn’t anything in my pocket but lint.  It wasn’t a good feeling.  Certainly not one I want to have again.”

Which his son was worried might happen, most likely, if he left his laughably-termed career and got a scrapheap-guard job like his dad had done.

      “I’ll lend you the money, Greg.”

      “No… I don’t want you buying Mycroft’s wine.”

      “He’d appreciate it, no matter who paid the bill.  Man like him enjoys a nice wine in the evening.”

      “It should be _me_ buying it!”

      “The purpose of a loan, you know, is to be able to do something now and pay for it later.”

      “You’re thinking of credit.”

      “Same idea.  But, I’ll let your pride win for now and the wine can wait.  Along those lines, have you talked to Constable Anderson today?”

      “Yeah, when I was bringing that load of tables back to the school.   Georgie is leaving on holiday Tuesday, right on schedule.”

      “That’s only five days away.”

      “Yep.”

      “Taken any actual steps yet to get all this in motion?”

      “Nope.”

      “Hoping the pixies make it all go away without Mycroft getting involved.”

Greg’s loud exhale was the only necessary answer, but he decided to be polite and put some actual words to his thoughts.

      “Pretty much.  I don’t want him in this; not at all.  I’ve tried to talk him out of it, when we’ve had a private moment, but he won’t move a bit on his decision.”

      “He loves you, son.  That’s powerful motivation _not_ to move a bit.”

      “Would you let mum do what’s proposing?”

      “Let?  That implies I can order her not to do what she wants.”

      “You know what I mean.”

      “I do, but maybe you don’t.  I’d be exactly as unhappy as you if she was the one putting her delectable arse on the line and I’d do my best to talk her out of it, but she’s her own person, just like Mycroft.  All I’d be able to do was my utmost to keep her safe, but I couldn’t stop her.  At least, not in a way that would keep our marriage alive.”

Greg had always admired that his father wasn’t one of the sexist berks who treated their wives or girlfriends like they were second-class or, worse, property.  It was one of the reasons his parents had one of the happiest, most successful marriages of anyone he knew.

      “Mum _did_ say she married you because you saw her as a person and not another bird to wash your clothes and cook your dinner.”

      “And because of my staggeringly handsome looks.”

      “You are the only person who thinks that.  In any case… it all just crashed on me today, I suppose.  Lint-filled pockets, axe-blade on my neck, no idea how I’ll continue to fill those pockets once the axe has been lifted away…  I don’t know how to be an honest man, Dad.  That’s the truth of it.  I’ve never earned an honest wage or had to worry about going to work every day and having a budget so the bills are paid… I don’t know how to be a normal person!”

      “It’s not hard.”

      “Maybe not for you, you’re the most ordinary man in the world.”

      “Thank you.  And, despite what you think now, you’ll get on with it when the time comes and I suspect it won’t be as much of a shock as you think, since you’ve got help to get you through it.  It’ll be a different life, that’s for certain.  But different doesn’t mean worse or less satisfying.  I think you’ll be moving very far up the ladder on that score, actually.”

      “Maybe.” 

      “Definitely.  Look at all the things you’re doing!  Can you say you’ve been bored?”

      “No, I honestly can’t say I have.”

      “Feel as if you’re a part of something, not just slithering about like a lone rat?”

      “What the fuck is a lone rat?”

      “Sort of like a lone wolf, but seedier and with beadier eyes.”

      “Lovely.”

      “I’m lovely, you’re seedy. Yes, I concur.  But we’re working to change that!  Today, for example, you’re going to learn basic telly repair, which will be helpful if your own elderly example decides to catch a bad case of electrical arthritis.”

      “Dad, you worked at a scrapheap, not an electronics shop.  Even an old telly has… complicated this’s and that’s.”

      “That’s very learned language, son.  Good to see the few weeks you actually attended school did some good.  What you seem to forget is that I had lots of time on my hands at work.  Where do you think half of the stuff we had came from?”

      “Father Christmas?  Or some of those pixies?  A lone rat, maybe.”

      “More the case of finding something that wasn’t too broken and doing what I could to mend it.  Took a few books from the library and talked to some mates with more skills in those areas than me.  Traded parts for one of their projects for a bit of training on what they were working on.  I can fix all sorts of things!  Provided they aren’t too new or complex.  I should do a class or two... there’s always money to be made away from the tax man’s eyes if you’re willing to do the work to get it.  Legal work, that is.”

      “Avoiding taxes isn’t legal.”

      “When’s the last time you paid any?”

      “I… enough about me, what sorts of classes were you considering?”

      “You’re pathetic.  But, you’re also mine, so I can’t abandon you to the nuns and let them continue to raise you.”

      “Mycroft might be happy if you did.  I hear nuns are terrors for manners and keeping your hands out of the till.”

      “Nah, he’s got that covered.  Besides, you’d look hideous in one of those nun’s outfits and he likes you looking smart.”

      “Can’t look smart for long as a poor bloke.”

      “Pfft.  I’ll show you the tricks to cutting a fine figure no matter how little money you have.”

      “You’re the worst dresser in existence!”

      “Shhhhh… this is a disguise.  When it’s just me and your mum, you can’t tell the difference between me and one of those models in the fashion mags.”

      “I think the ten-stone weight difference might be a clue.”

      “Yeah, some of those poncy lads really do need to put down the pasties and have a nice salad now and then.”

__________

      “Ok, what’s going on?”

Greg looked the sea of faces staring at him and hoped the news wasn’t as nerve-wracking as he was quickly beginning to believe.  He’d been prepared to return, apologize to Mycroft and see what he could do to make amends, but that, it seemed, had to be postponed.

      “Constable Anderson phoned, my dear, while you and your father were out.”

      “Mycroft… he has no reason to phone the vicarage.”

      “He does if he wishes to speak with me.”

      “You?  Ok, let me sit down.  I think that’s probably a good idea.”

Greg dropped into a chair and took a deep breath before steeling himself for whatever Mycroft had to say.

      “Go ahead, love.”

      “The meeting is tomorrow night.”

      “What meeting.”

      “The meeting with our buyer.”

      “We… we don’t have a buyer.  We don’t have anything for anyone to buy!”

      “The latter remains true; however...”

      “What?  Just tell me so I can die now and not later after I’ve had to suffer.”

      “Constable Anderson began sending various tendrils of inquiries into the… criminal underworld…”

That his Mycroft actually looked around for eavesdroppers before saying ‘criminal underworld’ was reason number one million that this was the man criminal-underworld-dweller Greg Lestrade loved with his whole heart.

      “… concerning goods for sale and…”

      “He found a buyer already?  That’s… that’s suspicious.”

      “I expressed a similar disbelief, but the constable said he investigated the buyers and there seems nothing amiss.  Besides their criminality, that is.”

      “Did he say who they were?”

      “No, nothing besides matters seemed above board and they were serious about pursuing the purchase of our imaginary goods.”

      “Ok… Anderson’s got a good nose for this sort of thing.  He doesn’t miss much, so if he says this is legitimate, then I believe him.”

      “You will, however, phone and verify my statements the moment I am not there to hear you, I suspect.”

      “No!  Well, yes… but only because I know questions to ask that you don’t and he might not have thought off straight away.  You are perfectly welcome to be there when I talk to him, though.  Not that there’s much time… tomorrow night?  Really?”

      “Yes, and I have absolutely no idea what to wear.”

He was serious, too.  His Mycroft was as serious as a heart surgeon about not having his costume prepared.  This was already going the way of some Monty Python farce and he wasn’t sure which of the lads he wanted to be.

      “We’ll see you sorted, Mycroft, dear.  Let Martha and me handle everything.”

Oh good.  Mum was volunteering to be Eric Idle.

      “Mum…”

Being glared at by one mature female was bad enough but getting the in-stereo version was crippling.

      “Shutting up now.”

      “Good job, son.  Martha… you think we need a bit of shopping or can we work with what we have here?”

      “Hmmmm… we don’t have a good hat for him.”

      “Mycroft doesn’t need a fucking fedora!”

      “How’ll they know he’s a gangster, Mr. Petty Criminal?  You tell your mum and me that, why don’t you?  Just shut your gob and let us work our magic.”

Hell was here, and his room was already prepared.

      “I will assist.”

Oh good.  Sherlock was helping.  That made everything better.

      “That’s my Sherlock… mucking in to see his brother looking properly in-character for tomorrow.”

      “Actually, Mumsie, I am simply doing it to better savor Mycroft’s humiliation, but, pursuant to that goal, I shall lend my full expertise on the couture of the current London criminal sphere.”

      “You’re such an evil thing at times, but we love you anyway.  John, you want a piece of Mycroft’s humiliation or prefer to lend the love of my life a hand with getting something on the table for dinner.  Me and Martha are going to be too busy to feed you shaggy lot, but there’s a fat chicken ready for roasting, Graham, if you’ve a taste for it.”

John was sufficiently socially-aware to know he’d been volunteered for kitchen duty and was, honestly, ecstatic for it.  Umpiring the ongoing Sherlock-Mycroft bickering match was not nearly as rewarding as getting a nice meal ready, especially when meal preparation was accompanied by a great deal of pre-meal snacking and sipping of Mycroft’s potent spirits.

      “Dad… do something…”

The look of concern on his son’s face tugged at every of Graham Lestrade’s many paternal heartstrings.

      “I am!  I’m roasting a chicken.  With some carrots and potatoes.  Probably do something green, too, so everything’s top notch on the nutrition front.”

The tune his heartstrings played was ‘My Heart Bleeds for You.”

      “Ooh!  Do your gran’s sprouts, dear.  They’re about the only way a sprout can taste anything other than rubbish!”

      “Brilliant!”

As the menu debate continued, Greg caught Mycroft’s eye and nodded towards the study where, ostensibly, they were getting a fresh bottle of whisky for the house’s cooks-of-the-night.

      “Yes, my dear?”

      “First… I’m sorry about today.  I’m really, really sorry.  I was rude, unfair, greedy but, worst of all, I was hurtful to you and that’s never ok.  I can’t say I’ll never do it again, because I’m more than a bit thick, and don’t think before I speak, but I’ll _try_ not to and promise to apologize every time.  Especially when I take a swing at your religious beliefs.  I know what they mean to you, how important they are and how seriously you take them.  Also… how much happiness they’ve brought to your life.  It’s not right for me to stab at them for any reason, but, especially, not just to hurt you when we’re fighting.”

Mycroft took Greg in a long hug and let the knot in his chest loosen.  He hated fighting with his Gregory, he always had, and the pain was made all the worse when either of them lashed out in areas that both knew were inappropriate.  He had done it, so had the man in his arms, both many times, but a sincere apology had never failed to arrive to, ultimately, ease the hurt and commit them further to protecting each other, even _from_ each other.

      “I accept your apology, Gregory, and offer one of my own.  Something… something was amiss with you, was it not?”

      “Yeah, but… another time?”

      “Of course.  However, I _did_ notice and rather than inquire, I let the heat of the moment overtake me.  But, to your delight, I have no doubt, I had been offered a quiet dinner by the owner of our local inn and phoned, once you left, to accept.  You and I have a lovely evening ahead of us, as thanks for our work gaining his daughter’s school quite a number of the books she has been hoping to read.”

Greg smiled and tried not to notice that the simple act of thanks meant more to him than he would have expected.  His failure not to notice was, however, _very_ expected.  Mycroft was rubbing off on him again, and not in a pervy, tingly way, either.

      “That’s a lot better than a cold fifty quid in my pocket.  I do understand, though, love… and I _am_ proud of what we did and how it’s going to help people.  Just lost sight of that for a moment.”

      “Something to which we all fall victim from time to time.  And, now… you are unhappy with this rapid turn of events in your situation.”

      “You’re not?”

      “Oh, I am most taken aback, but attempting to look upon it as a sign from God that we are following the proper course.  I had worried, actually, that we would not be able to find a partner in nefariousness in sufficient time to make our efforts worthwhile.  I am now more confident that we shall prevail in this.”

      “Good way to look at things.  Did Anderson give the details of the meet?”

      “No, he said they would likely come tomorrow and advised we be in London no later than afternoon to make ready for any eventuality.”

      “Not surprising.  Buyers can be cautious, skittish even, and don’t want to give you a lot of time to do anything shady to set them up for something bad.  Usually that caution comes when you actually exchange goods for gold, but I’ve had them send me to three different places to get instructions to the _next_ place for something as simple as an introduction.”

      “I suppose when one has dishonest intentions, one expects dishonesty from others.  I shall not fret overmuch about it, then, and focus on successfully performing my role.  For which I, as yet, have no script.”

      “You’ll have one by tomorrow.  And it’ll be simple, don’t worry.  This first meeting won’t last long, it’s just to get the feel of the situation and decide whether or not they still want to go forward after taking your measure.  They get a bad taste in their mouth for some reason and we just keep fishing.  It happens more than you might expect, so don’t take it personally if they walk away.”

      “Is there a way to improve the chances of that not happening?”

      “No, because you don’t know what’s in their head.  What they’re hoping to see or not see, hear or not hear.  They may be hoping you’re stupid so they can take advantage or that you’re smart so they can actually negotiate with you and be sure you’ll deliver exactly as the agreement specifies.  Honestly, I’d say just be yourself, minus a touch of compassion.  Smart, articulate, focused on the sale… don’t ask too many questions, though, or they’ll get suspicious.  And don’t answer too many, either, or you’ll look easy to cheat.”

      “I believe I understand.  And, of course, it is not as if I am hoping to do further business with them.”

      “True.  However, a fucking fedora will _not_ help our cause.”

      “You are, as they say, no fun.”

      “Maybe, but I’m a very successful navigator of your colorful criminal underworld and know what’s what on that score.”

      “May I have a tie?”

      “I… fine.”

      “Spats?”

      “What the fuck are those?”

      “I shall take that as your agreement.”

      “No!”

      “A tie, spats… my pinstripe suit shall present marvelously.”

      “I’m in hell.  There’s just no denying that anymore.”

      “Oh dear, I hope, then, that I am a sulfur-induced hallucination, for I have no idea what I would have done to warrant being here, as well.”

      “You were by your god sent to torture me.”

      “Ah, well, that makes sense.  One chooses the right person for the job, regardless of the nature of the job at hand.”

      “I need a drink.”

      “I need a watch chain.”

      “Will it match your spats?”

      “Most certainly!  And my gat.”

      “What?”

      “Move along, Gregory.  Your drink awaits.”

      “I’ll need several.”

      “Then best get started.”

__________

It had taken several loudly-voiced vetoes, but Greg finally approved Mycroft’s ‘hoodlum’ disguise, which was not too far off of Mycroft’s ‘off-duty’ wardrobe, with the addition of Greg’s watch, which was flashier than Mycroft’s own, the top two buttons of his shirt unbuttoned for a more devil-may-care appearance and some product threaded through his hair, so his somewhat flyaway locks had a slicker look, something that married well with image they were shooting for.  A presentation that had whiffs of shadiness, but nothing that overpowered the serious-about-business persona Greg had decided would work best for this first meeting.

      “You ready, love?”

 _Many_ loud vetoes had been necessary to get everyone to stay at the vicarage and not come to London, but Greg, John and Mycroft.  Greg would be out of sight, but John would be visible, though not at Mycroft’s table at the pub where the meeting was to be held.  Along with Constable Anderson, they were the immediate rescue team if something went awry and, also along with Anderson, if the buyers recognized him, it would only add support to Mycroft being trustworthy, albeit on the sliding-scale used for criminals and dirty-dealers everywhere.

      “I am.  And, I do admit, this is precisely the decrepit and dangerous sort of location I had hoped to visit for this meeting.”

A run-down pub in a more run-down area of the city wasn’t necessarily dangerous, but if his lover wanted to have his fantasy, Greg was not about to punch a hole in its center.

      “Glad you’re happy.  Remember, John and Anderson are there, and both know how to take care of both you and themselves if something goes wrong.  I’ll be in there no more than a few moments after any trouble starts, too.”

      “I know you will, Gregory.  And I have Mrs. Hudson’s hatpin in my jacket pocket should it be required.”

If there _was_ a god, he would ensure that a photo was snapped of Mycroft stabbing some nasty bastard with a league-long hatpin.  It would be the perfect souvenir of this whole rotten business.

      “Good.  Ok… go in, have a seat, order a drink…”

      “Something basic and rugged.”

      “Yep, no port or one of those crazy cocktails the Americans toss back like they’re water.  Got Anderson’s description of what you have to sell?”

Mycroft patted his pocket, not the one with his stabbing pin, and smiled triumphantly.

      “I have the information memorized, however, I shall present the list to the buyer if they wish to study it themselves.”

      “Smart.  Remember not to set any prices or make any promises.  They make an offer and press you on it, say you have to run the numbers to see if they work for you.  They keep pressing, give them a ‘who do you take me for’ look and tell them to fuck off.  That sort is going to foul things somehow and aren’t worth your time.”

      “I shall take all your sage advice to heart.”

      “I hope so, because it’s showtime.”

      “All right Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.”

      “That’s not how that goes.”

      “I assure you, it is.”

      “Really?”

      “I know exactly the film we shall watch tomorrow night.”

With a boop of Greg’s nose, Mycroft walked from the darkened alley that had been their staging area, to the front of the pub and went inside, acknowledging John and Anderson with only the slightest of nods, and took a seat at a wobbly table near the back where he felt the ambience was more suited to a disreputable, clandestine meeting.  It wasn’t long after his drink arrived, a simple and rather throat-stripping Scotch, that a tall, slender man entered through the same door, looked around a moment, then stalked towards Mycroft’s table, his face somewhat shrouded by the cap he had dragged low to shadow his eyes.  Eyes that didn’t meet Mycroft’s but, instead, kept looking around the pub for any hint of trouble.

      “Are you here to meet me, sir?”

      “I guess, yeah.”

      “Might you have a seat while we chat?”

      “Huh?  Yeah, good idea.”

The tall figure dropped into the chair opposite Mycroft and the furtive looking about finally came to a halt as Mycroft’s guest gave his shoulders a shake and looked his tablemate in the face.

      “Fuck me. Mr. Holmes?”

      “Sebastian Moran!  Whatever are you doing here?”

      “Me?  What the fuck are _you_ doing here?”

      “Language, young man.”

      “Ummm… sorry.  What the… fluff… are you doing here?”

      “Better.  Though I might ask that question of you.”

      “Do you have to?”

      “I believe I do.”

      “Ummmm…. ok.  I guess I’m here to meet with you to… buy some things.”

Mycroft’s long-suffering sigh was audible even to John and Anderson who shot him concerned looks, only to have them waved off with an irritated flick of Mycroft’s hand.

      “Should I even ask if James is party to this criminality.”

      “Probably not.”

      “Where is he, Sebastian?”

      “At our flat.  It’s a few streets from here.”

      “Very well.  This has gone staggeringly awry and the bud has been well and truly nipped…”

The squirming young man in the chair opposite him was as skinny as ever he’d been and Mycroft had no doubt Sebastian’s eternal partner in crime was equally in need of a good meal.

      “… so, we shall move this debacle to a more suitable location and one that offers more to fill one’s stomach than appalling Scotch.  Is there as eatery in the vicinity?”

      “Someplace to eat?  Yeah, there’s a place we like a few blocks from our flat.”

      “Then phone your compatriot and tell him to meet us there.  Gregory is not going to believe this.”

      “Who’s Gregory?”

      “Make your call, Sebastian.  We have a great deal to discuss.  All of us.”


	25. Chapter 25

Mycroft felt no surprise that Sebastian said next to nothing as he bolted down his large plate of food, nor that he cut eyes towards him to prompt another reach into Mycroft’s wallet for funds to buy a second large plate of food, nor that the other half of the nefarious duo did not arrive for some time after they reached the small café, since James Moriarty was nothing if not one to appreciate the value of a fashionably-late entrance.

      “I’m here.  The party can now begin.”

Running an eye over Jim’s appearance, Mycroft made sad note of the same overly-lean condition as Sebastian and the fact that Jim had clearly taken great care to make the most stylish presentation he could muster with clothes that didn’t quite fit and were visibly worn and carefully mended in certain spots.

      “The angels are rejoicing.  Here, go and purchase something to eat and we shall discuss this situation in depth.”

      “Ugh… this place is a rubbish bin.  Rats are surely the main source of protein in everything they make.”

      “Then I shall retract my offer and…”

The money disappeared from Mycroft’s outstretched fingers in the blink of an eye and shoved at Sebastian who huffed a soft breath before shoveling the last of his second meal into his mouth, rising and stalking towards the till to place another order.

      “I see Sebastian still strives to see you healthy and happy.”

      “A useful pet.”

Mycroft’s expression made Jim cough slightly and squirm in his chair.

      “A true and stalwart companion who has always, gladly, placed himself between you and the ills of this world, bestowing his friendship and affection in the process.”

Greg was extremely happy that he was not the one, this time, under Mycroft’s moral microscope and took his own moment to look over the new arrival.  He’d seen this one.  Hovering at the edges of things, always watching, always listening… apparently, hoping to make a move of his own to get his feet solidly planted.  Hard luck that what was probably going to be his first big deal was a bit of a disaster.

      “I… whatever.  So, Mycroft… what brings you to our little slice of hell?  Looking not very saintly, I must say.  Did they finally sack you for being boring?  Or…”

Greg’s own eyes narrowed when Jim’s landed on him and gave him a quick look which led to a knowing smile.

      “… for having it on with that one, there.  Who… hmmm… I’ve seen you before.  And, I do believe there are those who are anxious to see you again, at the moment.”

Which answered the question Mycroft had posed out of Sebastian’s earshot.  If these two were dabbling in moving stolen goods, there was some chance they’d recognize his lover, which would only serve to complicate matters further.  Apparently, complication was the special word of the day.

      “Not as anxious as some might be after they find out you’re trying to cut out a bit of territory for yourself, lad.  This is Dandy Dave’s patch and what he does to those who try to set up shop in his ‘little slice of hell’ is rather spectacular.  In a Clockwork Orange ultraviolence sort of way, that is.”

That particular smile on Greg’s face would be doing tremendously delightful things to Mycroft’s libido if it was given in another situation.  Here, though, it would only serve to exacerbate the contrarian nature of the younger man he was staring down.

      “Gregory, James… now is not the time for posturing.”

      “But you do have to admit I would be fabulous on the catwalk.  My posture is impeccable.”

Mycroft shook his head at Jim’s nonsense, and cut eyes towards Greg that said he’d provide a full explanation later, but please play along for now.

      “As it ever was.  Ah, and Sebastian brings your food, so we might, now, work towards a mutually-beneficial resolution to this unexpected turn of events.”

And, Mycroft noted, this particular establishment must be one the pair visited with some frequency, for they knew to have Jim’s food positioned on his plate so each item occupied a precise amount of space and was not violating the space of any other item.  Certain peculiarities remained as one aged, it seemed.

      “Now, James, Sebastian… may I inquire as to the reason you were seeking to purchase illegally-obtained goods?”

      “Now, Mycroft, may I inquire as to the reason you were seeking to sell illegally-obtained goods?”

      “I am well aware you have already concluded that the ‘sale’ was not a genuine transaction.  Playing ‘dumb’ never suit you, James.  And it certainly is not to your advantage here.”

      “Perhaps, but that doesn’t answer the question as to why you were trying to sell anything, at all.  Especially in that fancy dress ensemble that would only be appropriate for some form of third-rate panto.”

      “My appearance is perfectly acceptable for my part in tonight’s charade and you are well aware of that fact.  Do stop attempting to divert the course of the conversation and gain for yourself more time to craft a strategy to profit, somehow, from this matter.”

John and Anderson had been quiet during all of this, taking their cue from Mycroft, who seemed to have a feel for managing the two burgeoning criminals and were glad to see that their suspicions were correct.  And that the arrogant little fucker wasn’t gaining one inch against the vicar, regardless of Mycroft’s fancy dress costume.  Which was actually a great deal less panto-like than they had expected.

      “Fine!  Don’t take my advice, then.  Continue to be a tasteful person’s worst nightmare.”

Greg almost missed the slight motion of Sebastian’s arm, which looked exactly like the one he would use if he was putting a hand on Mycroft’s leg to tell him enough was enough and to stop being a prat.  Ok, maybe it was actually the other way around, but he recognized it anyway, so he’d duly score the victory.

      “I shall.  And gleefully.  Now, given you realize there are no goods to exchange hands, I would know… why are you doing this, James?  You and Sebastian are both gifted with a wealth of talents that open wide any number of advantageous doors in this world.”

      “Boring.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose in an exceedingly familiar gesture to several of those at the small table.

      “Yet honorable.  We have had this discussion many times, gentlemen.”

      “And that changes the boringness how?”

      “Sebastian… you were considering the military.  Have you forsaken that particular path?”

      “Maybe.”

      “For what possible reason?  And do not say boring or we shall have words you shall not appreciate in the slightest.”

      “… ‘s true, though.  Lots of boring training, following orders and the like before I can do the stuff I want.”

      “Like what, mate?  I did my time in the Army and it does have its aggravating aspects, but the rewards that follow are worth it, if you’ve got the skill and interest.”

Mycroft saw a flash in Moran’s eyes from John’s words, but it was duller than it had been when he was young.  In truth, he had harbored his own uncertainty about that career path for Sebastian, due to the highly-structured environment and Sebastian’s own particular area of interest, but that path may also have given the boy a purpose in life, something he sorely needed.

      “Be a sniper.”

      “Ooh, that’s a select group, lots of training for that, no question about it, but if you’ve got the talent, they can certainly use more in their ranks.  Had a few times where one of that lot saved my arse while I was in Afghanistan, so I value the service they provide.  Lots of others do, too.  You want more information or to talk to someone who knows that life, let me know and I can make that happen.”

Sebastian’s non-committal shrug was something Mycroft and John both read as a distressing sign that an old dream had been given up and Mycroft, especially, was eager to know the reason why.  The time for that discussion was not now, however.  Soon, though… he was not one to leave behind a lost lamb in this dreadful world of wolves.

      “Well, offer stands.  I’m easy to find if you’d like to chat.  Just ask about for Doctor Watson and someone will point you in the right direction.  I’ve treated a few people in this area, so they know my name and how to find me.”

Now, Jim was giving John a long look, which curled his lips into a snide, knowing smile.

      “Oh yes… the disgraced doctor.  Peddling his services to whomever is desperate enough to pay him.”

      “That is quite enough, James.  John’s issues are his own, as are yours.  Would you care to bring those to our table for a general discussion?”

John was actually surprised how fast the teeny bugger shut his mouth and added that to his own observations that here was someone, like Sherlock, who put razor wire and landmines up between himself and the world, lobbing grenades if you even thought about coming close.  The question was if, like Sherlock, this was a defense built to guard against any more pain in his life or if Jim was just a bastard.  Right now, it was difficult to say…

      “Very well.  I take it from this continued sniping that you and Sebastian are pursuing a life of crime and this was simply a matter of normal business.  I would know if this is a fairly standard example of your criminal endeavors or if this is a new arena for you?”

Anyone else might laugh at Mycroft verbal foray into topics associated with their work, but not a man at the table could honestly bring themselves to do it since Mycroft was very serious in his pronouncements and… there were people in the world for whom you simply couldn’t bring yourself to burst the bubble of their innocence for certain things.

      “I wouldn’t say new… Sebastian and I have quite the network of our own forming and it a formidable one, to say the least.”

Forming… meaning it didn’t exist in any meaningful fashion besides in Jim’s always-active mind, if Mycroft read the situation correctly.  And he invariably did.

      “I have no doubt, however, I was more hoping to ascertain if you could be of further assistance to us in our own venture.”

All eyes on Mycroft were at different levels of ‘what are you up to?,’ but nobody wanted to be the one to say they were in the dark and looking for the light switch.

      “I… Seb and I are always willing to discuss business.  Profitable business is an especially welcome topic of conversation.”

      “Then our intentions coincide most agreeably.  Though, the term ‘profit,’ is a most fluid one, I find.”

      “We don’t!  And credit really isn’t an option, Mycroft, considering I suspect you have little to none.  Do they even pay you in actual money or just send you a new bible and some loaves and fishes twice a month?”

      “A well-prepared bit of fish is always a joy and my housekeeper prepares a wonderful, hearty loaf to accompany our meals, so my edible wages are most satisfactory.  Given your ridiculous jibes have now been laid to rest, hopefully, it seems logical that since you are already involved in our matter, your involvement continues with the purpose of furthering our goal.”

      “Which is?”

      “Removing from Gregory the false charge of conducting himself in an unadmirable fashion during a certain transaction.”

      “I would argue that _any_ transaction he brokered was unadmirable.”

      “And you would be correct by my standards, however, as you do not share those standards, kindly cease poking the proverbial badger, for it shall gain you nothing.”

      “Always, always so very boring.  However, setting aside that carved-in-stone truth, we did speak of profit, remember.”

      “Only to be gained through your cooperation.  Are you assuring me of that?”

      “I am assuring you of nothing, simply… keeping an open mind.”

      “Always a laudable mental outlook.  What I propose is that we enact our scheme as originally planned and…”

      “Did you actually just say scheme?”

      “I am rather proud of that, myself.  In any case, what has transpired tonight does not necessarily alter our original construct and, in fact, might make it more efficient by lessening the number of potential variables.”

      “Enumerate.”

Knowing the gleam in Jim’s eye, Sebastian sighed and nodded towards another table, smirking that neither Mycroft nor Jim seemed to notice four adult-sized persons leaving their table and relocating.

      “They’ll go soaring off into language nobody the fuck understands but them and filling in half of what should be said in their own heads so the other doesn’t have to say it at all.  Fucking annoying when that happens… unless you’ve got something to eat while they’re doing it.”

Greg smirked at Seb’s hopeful eyes and thanked his lucky stars that his neck had bent enough to accept a bit of cash from his dad, _only_ as a loan, so he could toss another few notes at the younger man, who grabbed and went off to order another round of something hot and greasy.

      “Anderson, you’ve been fucking quiet.  What’s your take on this?”

      “That I think I know what Mycroft’s planning and it’s a good idea, if he can trust those two.”

      “Can he?”

      “If it was anyone else but Mycroft, I’d say no.  Not in a million lifetimes.  I’ve heard of this Jim fellow and he’s a slippery eel.  But, he also seems to know Mycroft and, more importantly, Mycroft knows him.  Enough to hit some ‘drop the act, you fucker’ spots and that can mean he knows how far he can trust that pair.  I’m willing to follow his instincts, at least, to see where they lead..”

      “You think he’s proposing they keep pretending to be real buyers, which eliminates the wild card of a buyer we can’t totally predict and let them spread about the story, seeing if Dimmock bites.”

      “Which he will.  He’s hungry for cash right now, I don’t know why, but he’s been sniffing about like a fucking bloodhound trying to find something.  Something this big, especially with younger, less experienced buyers he thinks he can fuck over easily enough… he’ll leap at it.”

      “John, what do you think?”

      “Mycroft has his ways, that’s for certain.  I do believe it would be to our advantage to have all sides in this working from the same playbook.  Fewer things that can go wrong the better.”

      “Ok… let’s see what comes from the Great Negotiation.  Anyone need anything while we wait?”

      “Sneak back to the pub for a few pints?”

Greg always admired Anderson’s quick and practical mind.

      “You two can.  I’m not going to leave Mycroft here alone.”

Anderson and John shared a quick glance that confirmed neither was particularly comfortable actually leaving Greg and the only person here to keep an eye on things.  Oddly, leaving Mycroft alone wasn’t as worrying as this Jim and Sebastian would have less reason to do something foolish to save face or keep up their image if they were alone with the vicar than if there was a witness observing the goings on. Since he’d raised the issue, Anderson decided to be the one to kill it where it stood.

      “Then more dreadful tea it is!  I’ll get us the largest they have.  I suspect we’ll be here awhile.  Mountain of chips, too.  I’m famished.”

The constable rose to join Sebastian in obtaining something to tide them over while the scheme-crafters maneuvered to gain for each other the best possible deal.  In truth, he’d not only heard that Jim bloke was slippery as an eel, but extremely clever and cunning, and there were a few here and there already with an eye on him, mostly to make certain they didn’t end up with a knife in their backs.  Hungrier than Dimmock, but leagues smarter… yeah, he was one to keep a _very_ close eye on.  But, now that he thought about it, also a good one to have a connection to for other potential deals in the future.  And, Philip Anderson was all about potential.  Potential and chips… he was also all about chips.  They really did smell good right now…

__________

The conversation at the foursome table stayed solidly in the arena of generic safe topics like sports and films, while they all kept an eye on the much more lively conversation at the twosome table, which continued on for some time until both Mycroft and Jim were sporting expressions that managed to successfully mix a ‘well, I am truly unsatisfied, but this appears to be the best I can do’ look with an ‘oh, I have the upper hand in this, there is no question about it’ smirk.  When the proverbial signatures were finally on the equally-proverbial agreement, Jim rose from the table, nodding at Seb to join him in his exit.  Greg took note, though, that Sebastian paused and gave Mycroft an indecipherable glance that might, if one wanted to make a stab at deciphering it, said he hoped this would not be the last he’d see of the vicar.  With the younger pair gone, the others returned to Mycroft’s table to debrief.

      “Well, love?”

Greg took note of Mycroft’s neck rubbing, shoulder rolling and how tired his lover looked at the moment.  The fun of playing gangster had worn off the moment Mycroft saw who it was they were dealing with and there was little doubt the emotions of the evening had been wearing on the tender-hearted vicar.

      “They _will_ participate in our little charade, provided…”

      “What sort of profit was the little fucker demanding.”

      “Oh, the universe and a Christmas pudding, all wrapped in a lovely bow, however, I… in truth, I am not satisfied with the outcome, for a variety of reasons, but it is not unreasonable, all things considered.”

      “Want to share this outcome or are we now part of a pub quiz?”

      “Amusing.  The negotiated fee for their services is… you.”

      “Well, I know I shag like a professional, but I never thought you’d…”

      “Gregory, do behave.  James will expect you, as an established personage in your line of work, to assist him furthering his own goals in that direction.  Make introductions, vouch for his skills and talents, see him with what assistance you can to attain sort of reputation he desires to build.  Also, potentially…”

There was something in Mycroft’s tone that let Greg exactly know what was coming.  And, he couldn’t say it was a bad idea, only that it wasn’t a done deal, at this point.

      “… take over my own bit if I… retire.”

      “Most astute.  I did make clear that your future employment was entirely undecided, and this was not something upon which he could count, however, I did imagine part of you might be relieved that what you have built, through your own hard work, would simply not scatter to the winds, taken up by many, likely unworthy, hands.”

Something Greg had to admit, at least to himself, was a good argument.  He was proud of what he had built, though it wasn’t a life that many people would take a lot of pride in.  And, yes, the idea of it just being unraveled, leaving behind no… legacy… _had_ been upsetting.  Disheartening, even.  It did actually make him feel better about letting go of his old work, if he could find new work to replace it.  Strange, perhaps, but it did, even if was being left to a couple of young punks.

      “Can’t say I disagree, but I’d like to know those two more before I’d consider it seriously.  And not all of that is because I’m worried they’d be shit at all of it.  If they _are_ shit at it, that could be very unhealthy for them and I know that’s not something you want.”

      “No, it is not.  Fortunately, they shall present themselves in two days’ time at the vicarage, so that we might craft a specific strategy to effectively utilize their involvement in our scheme.”

      “Again with the scheme.”

      “Embrace the scheme, my dear, it shall benefit your colon.”

      “Lovely.  But, we do need to get the details tightened, so a visit is a good thing.  Anderson, could you make that, too?”

Greg was gaining an appreciation for those corporate types who had to coordinate meetings with _other_ corporate types, all of whom had different schedules and priorities.  He could, at least, officially cross ‘corporate executive’ off of his list of potential future careers.  It was fucking annoying and he didn’t need more annoyance in his life.

      “Yeah, I think so.  I’ll be knackered, since I’m on nights, but I can make it out there and back for my next shift easily enough.”

      “Ta, mate.  I’ll give you a weekend in France or something when we’ve got this sorted and you can sleep through the whole thing.”

      “Typical.  Probably just drop me in my own flat and I won’t know a thing since I’ll be unconscious for two days.  Toss a baguette at me when I wake up and tell me what a grand time I had, if only I could remember any of it.”

      “You discovered my fiendish plan.  Now, I have to think of another one.”

      “You’ve got time, you bastard.  And I want Italy or Spain for my new fiendish plan.  I like the food better.”

      “Deal.  Now, love… you want to tell us about those two or are you still processing all the whatnot from seeing them again?”

Mycroft’s tired smile had the other three rising to don their jackets, with Greg checking for the keys of the car they’d borrowed for the drive to London.  One good thing about elderly ladies and their cars -   they were willing to loan them to nice boys who drove them to the market or moved a bloody chair around a room a thousand times until it got the perfect amount of sunlight for afternoon reading and didn’t result in glare on the telly.  And, of course, that nice boy would return the car with a full tank of petrol and see it washed so it gleamed like a mirror, because that’s what nice boys did when they borrowed a car.  If they knew what was good for them.

      “I _would_ like some time to reflect upon my memories, if you do not mind.”

      “Not at all!  Anderson, fuck off and try not to get lost on the way home.”

The constable’s answer wasn’t verbal, but the configuration of fingers he showed Greg satisfied as his returned bidding of goodbye.  As he strode out the door, the other three followed and turned a different direction towards their borrowed car and the drive home.  Where everyone would be awake, sitting ready for a report.  Hopefully, they didn’t drink all the liquor while they were waiting, because the  three people entering the vicarage were going to be in need of a stiff drink and tears might be shed if the cupboard was dry…


	26. Chapter 26

Greg had hoped that his lover would be somewhat forthcoming about his history with Sebastian and Jim on the drive back to the vicarage, but Mycroft seemed content to ignore the topic and focus on other aspects of their upcoming joint efforts.  By the time they arrived home, they had a suite of schemes outlined that included their new partners and all were dissected with surgical tools with the rest of their family gang once they’d gotten their stiff drink and settled in for conversation.

It was ferociously late when everyone finally dispersed to their various sleeping stations and Greg wasted no time getting his vicar up to their bedroom, clad in pyjamas and into bed so Mycroft could finally relax and, hopefully speak from the heart.

      “Big day for us all, love.  Too bad you didn’t get more use out of your clever disguise.”

The soft chuckle brought a smile to Greg’s face and he curled tighter around his bedmate, placing a kiss on Mycroft’s chest that Mycroft happily felt through the clean cotton of his nightwear.

      “My heart is well and truly broken.  However, the community does enjoy a spirited bit of amateur dramatics, so I suspect I shall don it again for some production or another.”

      “If mum and dad don’t get seats in the front row, they’ll weep.”

      “I shall ensure VIP seating is arranged.”

      “Perfect.  And… I hope Jim and Seb don’t mind being given big parent hugs when the get here, because you know mum and dad are going to see more chicks for their messy nest and draw them in whether they like it or not.”

Come on, love… this is your big opening…

      “Oh, there is little doubt your parents will reach out, but whether James and Sebastian reciprocate… that is difficult to say.”

      “Did they… I can’t help but think their story isn’t a happy one, no matter how greatly that Moriarty bloke tries to act smooth and devil-may-care.”

You know you want to, Mycroft… get it all off your chest…

      “In that, I would agree, though they are fortunate their story is not… I was going to say a truly tragic one, but that would, perhaps, belittle their past.”

      “What happened?  You know you won’t sleep until you work though this, love, and I’d like to help, if I can.”

      “My rock.  Always, you are my rock… and, in truth, I do not know the full details of their story, for neither is disposed to share much about themselves… when I was in my second year at college, I was given the opportunity to explore more deeply my vocation and volunteered at a shelter for boys in London.  I would travel there twice a week, more during school breaks if I chose to remain in residence, which I did…”

      “Jim and Seb were boys at that shelter, weren’t they?”

      “Sebastian was a resident first, then James came into their care a year later.”

      “Orphans?”

      “No, at least not… not at first, for Sebastian.  For James, I still cannot say for certain, though it would not surprise me if that were now the case.”

      “That doesn’t sound good.”

      “Nor was it in actuality.  Sebastian was a quiet boy, always held himself apart from the others.  Highly intelligent, but willing to let others think differently if it kept them at arm’s length.  I suspected a history of abuse and still do, though his counselors could not persuade him to confirm that fact.  He was taken from his father when he was six years old and I do know the man had a history of violence, drunkenness… he died from alcohol-related complications when Sebastian when ten.  His mother had died when Sebastian was three and the authorities believed it was her death that triggered the father’s… descent.”

      “Shit… that’s terrible.”

      “Fortunately, the shelter in which he was placed was an excellent one, though the staff was not able to find a family willing to adopt him.  And, despite his unique nature, I believe James was a gift to Sebastian from our Lord.  As great a gift, in fact, as Sebastian was to James. The two were inseparable…”

      “And caused a world of trouble, I take it.”

      “Eternally.  James did adore his little plots and Sebastian was more than willing to help him carry them out.  And to trounce those who decided James required some proverbial payback for his shenanigans.”

      “Brains and brawn.”

      “Though it was not as divided in task as you might suspect.  James is quite adept at defending himself, when necessary, and I always suspected that a healthy portion of their misdeeds had first been concocted in Sebastian’s active mind.”

      “Got it.  I know a few partners like that.  They push a certain image, give a particular impression and that’s not exactly what’s going on behind the scenes, but it works well for business.”

      “Precisely.”

      ‘You… umnnn… you said you didn’t know if Jim was orphan, but it wouldn’t surprise you…”

      “Yes… James’s mother was one of the many desperate women who take the one opportunity they see offered to them to earn a wage…”

      “By selling herself.”

      “She had no idea who was James’s father, but… though she took pains to convince those around her that she felt him a burden, he was not a stupid boy.  She _did_ care for him, in her way, and I know, from the times I visited her to try to counsel her troubled soul, that she missed her son in her life.  However, that life was fraught with drugs, clients who were not kind… one day, I found her flat empty and, as far as I know, she was not heard from again.  The shelter notified the authorities and they did conduct a search…”

      “When people don’t want to be found, they’re surprisingly good at it.  Especially if the police don’t try very hard.”

      “I wish it were otherwise, but yes.  Regardless, James was not inclined to know her fate one way or the other.  He felt betrayed, abandoned… I feel, in some ways, as bleak was his life at home, he might have achieved a healthier perspective of the world had he remained there.  Or not.  It is punishingly difficult to know with him.”

      “Not everybody wants to share their troubles, love.  It sounds as if you did the best you could.  You were close to both boys, weren’t you?”

      “Surprisingly, yes. As close as one _could_ be.  I tried to help and… in some ways, they reminded me of us.  Allied against a world that seemed, at times, crushing… desperate to forge our own path.  And, too, they reminded me of Sherlock.  Flailing to find that elusive path, gifted in ways that could take them far, if only they chose to use those gifts to benefit others.  I did my best for them and prayed regularly for enlightenment to help me do better, be more effective a mentor and source of moral strength.  Tried to guide them as best I could, encourage them in their interests and goals… arranged for Sebastian to take lessons in archery, purchased for him a darts board, saw him situated with every book the library boasted for military history and his beloved crime stories… helped James enroll in classes at the local technical college, which boasted a surprising number of offerings in mathematics, something at which he excelled…”

      “Look at you, being a big brother to those two little berks.  I… I got the feeling, though, it’s been a very long time since you’ve seen them.”

      “I cannot say it was not expected, in some sense.  Only a fool would miss that they were ready to bolt the shelter as soon as they aged out of their eligibility for services.  And, by that point, I had been assigned as a deacon to my first church and could not spend with them the time that once I could.  I did my best… accompanied them to jobs centers, wrote letters of recommendation, but… they chose, instead, to break ties with everyone they knew and start fresh building a future on their own terms.  I cannot, and did not, fault them for their decision, for I did a very similar thing in my own life.  But, it also taught me the pain one suffers when one is left behind.  Again, I am sorry for that, Gregory.  It is a sorrow I will always carry, I suspect, though you are now here with me.”

      “You did what you had to, love.”

      “Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  In any case, that is how I view their actions, though I have missed them over the years.  And…”

      “You’re thinking about how they might be different if you could have continued to keep your eye on them.”

Mycroft hummed his agreement and gave Greg a small squeeze.

      “You know me well.  It is clear they are leading a hard life, though James does his utmost to conceal that fact.  I am surprised, in some ways, they have not made further inroads into your world than they have to date.”

      “I’m not.  You don’t know someone in my game, it can be difficult to get anyone to trust you, not that _any_ of my lot really trust the rest.  One of the reasons family connections are still vital in my business… those ‘ties that bind’ can bind hard when you all have a lot of years in prison awaiting you should someone open their fucking mouths.  Hard to break into that circle unless you can catch someone’s eye and make a good showing.  I suspect they thought this deal _was_ going to be that chance.  I know they’ve been sniffing about looking for a way in for some time and this would have been a good start.”

      “And, now, they still hope to leverage it to their benefit.  Is it… we have danced around the topic many times, my dear, but…”

      ‘I _am_ thinking about it, Mycroft.  Leaving that life completely behind with no looking back.  Actually, I like the idea of having someone inherit what I’ve built, for lack of a better word, and build on it themselves.  It sounds as if these two might be good candidates for that.”

      “I assure you that if you can see James and Sebastian situated in a way that provided, at least, a chance to prove their mettle, they _would_ successfully capitalize on that chance.”

      “Does that make _you_ happy?”

      “I… I do not know.  I recognized long ago that everyone under God’s heaven will not walk the same path, or even a path I find acceptable, from a moral standpoint.  That does not, however, make them evil or sinful… the reasons for their choices are often compelling ones and cannot be disregarded out of hand.  I would cherish seeing them set with a purely legal and rewarding future, but if that future be other than I would wish, I would hope to counsel them towards the most honorable path possible for the life they chose.”

      “Like you always tried to with me.”

      “And you have hoped to accomplish for Sherlock.”

      “Mycroft, I know we talked about kids, but I didn’t think they’d be quite so tall.”

This laugh was one that made Greg smile brightest; his lover’s relaxed, uninhibited chortle that signaled sleep might actually arrive tonight and he wouldn’t be sitting up with the vicar as he battled old ghosts in his mind.

      “Mrs. Hudson will be infuriated by the size of the nappies that shall invade her weekly laundry.”

      “Can you imagine feeding time?  All those surly babies in their chairs, lips slammed shut as we try to push in the peas?”

      “Horrifying… simply horrifying.  I believe the Grandparent Protocol would have to be initiated at a very early point.”

      “Dad’s a hefty bloke.  He’d be able to burp them easily enough.  Mum would probably knit them little hats and shoes, too.”

      “We are saved!”

      “That’s settled, then.  And the new sprogs will get to meet their grandparents soon enough.”

      “They will, indeed.  How plentiful is our spirits supply?”

      “After tonight, it’s a bit thin, but I’ll restock it tomorrow when I take Mrs. Hudson shopping.  Are the new kids going to stay long?  I’m not certain where they’ll sleep, and we’ll need more groceries… and chairs for the table… to feed them.”

      “Yes, I had given that some thought.  I suspect they will not stay overnight, but I shall have Mrs. Hudson air extra blankets to make bedrolls, if needed.”

      “Which you and I will be sleeping on, right?”

      “One must always be a good host to one’s guests.”

      “They’ve got younger backs!”

      “Your back did not suffer in the slightest when I took you over my knee last night for a sound spanking.”

      “I… ok, you have a point.”

      “One I shall re-emphasize tomorrow, when we are bit more refreshed.”

      “Promise?”

      “I never josh about the finer things in life, my dear.”

      “And I’m very thankful for it.”

__________

In some ways, Mycroft was surprised that the anticipated duo hadn’t arrived with Jim being carried by Sebastian or Sebastian pulling his compatriot along in some form of cart.  James’s dislike of exertion was a near match for his own, but on their own two feet did they make their way up to the door to bang on it loudly until Mycroft took himself from the watching through the window and answered it.

      “Welcome, gentlemen.”

      “Ugh… this is actually more depressing and boring than I imagined.  Did you cull through every cliché in literature to craft the décor?  When will Miss Marple be arriving for tea?”

      “Pleasant as ever, James.  Your unique sense of humor never fails to tickle my funnybone.”

      “Wipe your feet, you savages!  I’m not mopping the floor because you’ve drug half the world’s dirt in with you.”

Mrs. Hudson’s glaring contest with Jim, while Sebastian took the moment to give his shoes a quick scuff on the mat, was far more even-sided than the budding criminal would like to admit, and he made a grand show of giving his shoes the least amount of wiping that could technically comply with Mrs. Hudson’s order.

      “Good lad.  Now you and the big one look like you could use a little something warm in your stomachs.  Follow Mr. Holmes and I’ll bring something out for you.”

Jim opened his mouth to reply then closed it, hearing Sebastian’s lip-licking from behind him.  Even he had to concede that there were times the verbal high-ground needed to give way to other concerns.

      “Mycroft, you heard her.  Are you going to ask us to sit or do we have to stand here like horses in the paddock?”

      “I beg your pardon, James.  I was mesmerized for a moment with your shoe-wiping dance and completely forgot my manners.  Do come with me.”

Delighting in every of the imaginary daggers that were being plunged into his back, Mycroft escorted the pair into the sitting room where the rest of the family were waiting.

      “I believe you know Gregory and John.  You have yet to meet John’s partner, Sherlock, and Gregory’s parents, Graham and Katherine.”

      “Glorious.  I’m in a B-grade performance of _The Forsyte Saga_.”

The happy gasp from Greg’s mother gave Mycroft time to brace for Jim’s first encounter with his future gran.

      “Oh, I adored that!  A bit treacly, now and then, but the acting was ever so good.  Greg was a wee thing when it first came on and it bored him silly, so he’d fall asleep in front of the telly and give me and Graham a bit of a quiet night, which was always a joy.”

The sheer agony on Jim’s face warmed Mycroft’s heart and he motioned Seb to nudge his counterpart over towards the sofa where two empty spaces awaited them next to Greg’s father, who was happy to keep the conversation going.

      “You two know our Mycroft, I hear.  The wife and I are always happy for stories about that one, so don’t hold back with the most embarrassing ones you have.  Need all the blackmail material we can lay hands on for when we’re old and feeble and him and our evil son are trying to push us into some old person’s home where they feed you gruel and boiled rats three times a day.  Brown sauce can’t even make that tasty, though it wouldn’t stop me from trying!”

Sebastian’s soft snigger was something Mycroft hadn’t heard in a long time and, honestly, wasn’t sure still existed in the older version of the boy he knew.  He was exceedingly happy to learn it was.  The jury had yet to give its verdict for Jim, however.

      “Saint Sanctimony took great pains to avoid anything interesting, entertaining, amusing or fun in his life, so the only stories that exist are of his droning on about doing good works and hygiene.”

The verdict was not in the defendant’s favor.

      “Gave you the sex talk, did he?  Good lad, our vicar there.  Making certain you didn’t catch something that would make your cock fall off before you had much chance to use it.  That would have been a rotten shame for a couple of handsome lads like you.”

Jim’s pained groan and Sebastian’s sniggering made Greg and Mycroft share a look that said the Grandparent Protocol was off to a smashing start.

      “If this is going to continue to be as ridiculous as your Pretty Prawn Puppet Show, John and I are leaving.”

      “I told you, Sherlock, that we’d gladly have you as Angry Anemone, so don’t be peevish now.  Envy isn’t his best color, is it, my darling wife?”

      “Not at all.  Sherlock’s more a blue boy, to me.  Some purples, too, and maybe a touch of that lovely deep greeny-blue you see in the nature programs for bird feathers.  Graham!  I think I’ve been inspired.”

      “One new piece of art on the way!  I’d better load the cupboard with salve, because the first thing she’ll do when we’re back in London is dash off to her glass studio and come home with a wealth of burns.”

      “I do get a bit excited and incautious.  The instructor tells me that all the time when he’s holding my finger under a cold tap.”

Sherlock and Jim made a lovely pair of victims being boiled in oil and Mycroft wondered how Jim would respond if the conversation took a turn towards Sex Lives of Parents.  Sherlock’s response to that was positively BAFTA worthy.  Unfortunately, the arrival of two large plates and one housekeeper forestalled him finding out.

      “Here we are!  The other criminal in the house can murder a good hot sandwich, so I supposed it’s the national dish of Criminalia.  You two get that down your throats and there’ll be another if you have a need.”

Since Seb had eaten a third of his in one bite, Mrs. Hudson decided to get another _two_ going and cut bigger slabs of pie than she’d originally planned.  It was so nice to have people under the roof who appreciated a hearty meal.  Of course, the grocer’s bill wasn’t something to appreciate, but needs must when the devil drives… and his passengers were _so_ skinny…

      “As positively lovely as this is, might we get down to business.”

Jim fixed Mycroft with a ‘if we must, but I’m certain this will be boring’ stare and simultaneously smacked Seb’s hand that was reaching to steal his untouched sandwich.

      “Very well.  Perhaps we should recap…”

      “Boring.”

      “Thank you, James, for your rather predictable opinion.  Now, I feel it prudent to review…”

      “Boring.”

      “Thank you, Sherlock, for _your_ rather predictable opinion.  It seems…”

      “Are the other sandwiches coming soon?”

      “Thank you, Sebastian, for your not entirely predictable, but equally effective, opinion.”

      ‘Lad has a cracking idea.  Come on, Sebastian, was it?  You and me will charm Martha into a platter of sandwiches that just might hold the likes of us two strong manly men for a bit.”

Greg’s father made his wife giggle by flexing his muscles before rising from his chair and motioning for Sebastian to follow, which the young man did quickly after snatching half of Jim’s sandwich and stuffing it into his mouth before his partner could shriek.  Jim, however, never let things go without having the last word.

      “He’s utterly useless, sometimes.  Wave a sausage at him and he’ll follow you anywhere.”

      “Are you talking about your friend, love, or my husband?  Because, let me tell you, Graham’s head has been turned many a time by a shapely sausage.  Especially if it’s wearing a provocative roll.”

Jim replayed his entire life in his head to find the point that foreshadowed _this_ would be his day and cursed the universe that it had hidden that bit of information from him like the cruel concoction of physics that it was.  Perhaps it was time to get the proverbial show on the road…

      “ANYWAY, if it actually opens even the smallest escape hatch from this grotesque phantasmagoria to my actual life, I’m willing to reveal that, due to tedious and tragically unsatisfying personal effort, I have already made preliminary contact with Dimmock, or Eugene, as I am happy to call him because he hates it, which is extremely understandable since… ugh… however, he is precisely as greedy and stupid as I expected.  Barring greater stupidity on your part, which I am willing to concede is _highly_ possible, this shouldn’t be hard.”

Greg leaned forward and stared hard at Jim, who was examining his fingernails for any sign of imperfection.

      “He already contacted you?”

      “He contacted me, I contacted him, what does it matter?”

      “It matters if you said something that fucks us in the arse, you little bastard.”

      “Well, that’s one theory I had about you confirmed.  I always suspected Mycroft would top if anyone was desperate enough to agree to sleep with him.  Sometimes my brilliance stuns even me.”

      “Hey!  That’s enough of that, you little fucker!”

      “And further confirmation that you bottom and _like_ it.  Now that we have that sordidness sorted, how are we going to enact our little performance and how much of Ginger George’s property are we going to keep for ourselves?”

      “WHAT!  MYCROFT!”

Greg shot panicked eyes at his lover who was simply shaking his head and doing his best to hide the mote of pride he felt that Jim’s observational and reasoning powers hadn’t flagged in the slightest.

      “Be calm, Gregory.  I made no specific mention of the source of our goods, however, I suspect James gleaned the truth from pieces of the night’s conversation with me and between Sebastian and the rest of you.”

The loud sigh and hard slam of Greg’s back against his chair made John grin, though what was far more intriguing was the attention Sherlock was paying to this new person in their sphere.  That wasn’t necessarily a good thing, but the precise nature of the ‘not good’ remained to be seen.

      “Surprisingly, the plodding man of the cloth isn’t lying.  Oh my, what can my tiny mind make of a large quantity of various electronics that happen to be available not long after a certain flame-headed lummox robs a warehouse overflowing with that sort of thing?  And your waiting until next week to do anything about it, which just happens to be after said lummox goes on his holiday?  Not a difficult puzzle to piece together.”

Now, Sherlock’s attention was even more keen and not only John was noticing.

      “Sherlock!  Look at you, proud of your new friend.  You live in London, don’t you, Jim, dear?  That’s perfect, since you and your Sebastian can pop in and visit or join us for dinner when Sherlock and his John are visiting, too.  It’ll be such fun!  Oh, this is just… Greg!”

Greg quickly patted himself down for a tissue, finding a forgotten wad in his pocket and quickly handed them to his mother.  While Jim and Sherlock sat horrified, two familiar faces, now bearing traces of a rich and robust repast, peeked back into the sitting room and, after taking in the scene, shared a nod.

      “Right.  Looks like you lot have things in hand here, so we’re off to do a bit of shooting.”

      “What!  Dad!  You… what, are you a gunsmith, now?”

      “No, son of mine, but Peter Dale and I were talking at the fete and he said he’s got a few prize firearms that he’d be willing to take out for a bit of fun with a willing aficionado.”

      “You’re not… that.”

      “I’m an aficionado of anything new that seems interesting!”

      “That’s not what the word means.”

      “Pfft.  As if you know, Mr. Mycroft-Had-To-Correct-All-My-Essays-Because-I’m-Balls-With-The-English-Language.  Anyway, Sebastian here has a very strong interest in that sort of thing and I believe in encouraging young people’s interests.”

With his own ‘what in the world has happened to me’ conquered, Jim decided to wade into the fray.

      “Sebastian!”

      “What?”

      “You cannot leave me here alone!”

      “You’ll survive.”

      “Oh my god…”

      “Mycroft can help with that.”

      “This is… treason!”

      “Ummm… no.”

      “Well, I never.”

      “Ok.  John… wanna come?”

John’s ears perked right up at the offer, both for the chance to annihilate a few targets and to get the chance to talk more to Sebastian about life in the military.

      “Love to.”

      “John!”

      “Sherlock?”

      “You, also, are treasonous.”

      “Ok.  Have fun chatting with your brother.”

Jim’s gasp reminded Mycroft that he had never superficially revealed the name of his younger sibling and he felt a new and enormous headache looming.

      “Katie, love… Martha’s off to have a ladies’ gin-and-gossip session at the pub and wants to know if you’d like to come.”

      “I’d love to!  You meeting us later?”

      “Yeah, we’ll be in for a pint or three when we’re done.”

      “WAIT!”

All eyes turned towards Mycroft who was frantically trying to stop his head from spinning around all the directions of this conversation.

      “We have extremely important and timely matters to discuss.”

His father-in-law and former charge sharing a commiserative nod did not bolster in the slightest Mycroft’s confidence in holding together their planned agenda.

      “They’ll hold, lad.  Jim and Seb are staying with us tonight, so there’s plenty of time for that serious talk.  We’ll see you at the pub later, right?  Oh, it’ll be a right party with the whole gang having at it.  Just the thing to get the blood flowing for a true and proper caper.”

With Sebastian smiling as widely as Mycroft had ever seen him, the shotgun squad were bolting out of the vicarage and the only female in the room quickly darted off to put some red on her lips and some tissues in her purse.  Then, she grabbed Greg's ear and tugged him along behind her because someone had to do the shopping if she and Martha were otherwise disposed and they all wanted dinner later on. Leaving three annoyed geniuses alone with their thoughts.

      “I’m SO glad I came all the way out here to the wasteland.  It’s marvy, it really is.”

      “Thank you, James.  Your comment has been duly noted.”

      “This is hell.”

      “Thank you, Sherlock.  Your comment has, also, been duly noted.”

      “Sherlock… Sherlock Holmes… you’re the handy little chemist I’ve heard about.  And His Holiness’s brother.”

      “I, also, have heard of you, Moriarty.  A dweller of the shadows except, it seems, when Mycroft beckons.”

      “Au contraire, I am doing my good deed for the century and his beckoning has nothing to do with it.”

      “Hmmmm…”

      “Hmmmm…”

Mycroft watched the two sizing each other up like a pair of gladiators… or pampered house cats…  and wondered how far down the lane the shooting party had gotten.  At this point, he’d gladly volunteer to be their target.  A swift death, at this point, might be his life’s greatest blessing…


	27. Chapter 27

      “Oh… I don’t know, love.  That’s… you just escalated the danger factor off the scale.”

Greg had worried that with Mycroft home alone with Jim and Sherlock something troubling would happen, but he didn’t expect it to be in the form of a plan that went in quite _this_ direction.

      “But, do you agree it offers multiple avenues for your adversary to expose his despicable conduct?”

Taking a long sip of his beer, partly to buy time before answering, Greg also took the moment to look around the bustling pub, which was happy to have the extra bustle from their enlarged vicarage contingent.  John and Seb were chatting about something likely related to their few hours of turning targets into rubbish, his mum and dad were grouped up with Mrs. Hudson’s set and having their own laugh at the young people or whatnot, Sherlock and Jim had taken a table as far away from everyone and everything as possible, but seemed to have their own conversation going, most probably about something that would make his head ache if he knew about it…  all of that could be slashed and burned if something went wrong and Mycroft’s plan had a _lot_ of room for that very thing.

      “Gregory?”

      “What?  Oh, sorry.  Just thinking.  Let me… let me see if I have this straight.  You want to actually bring Dimmock to George’s storehouse to show him what’s for sale?”

      “Yes.”

      “So he might just steal it himself.”

      “Yes.”

      “Or, failing that, he buys the merchandise from Jim and Sebastian, which we actually never put back and then watch the shit fly when George finds it missing.”

      “Yes.”

      “Which you might help along by informing the police, anonymously, about who has the merchandise from a particularly enormous theft that occurred a few weeks ago.”

      “Yes.”

      “That could either have Dimmock beaten to liquid by George who’ll now know who stole what _he_ stole or, at best, get Dimmock tossed into jail for the theft.”

      “We have also considered there is a possibility he will… squeal… on others to gain a better deal and that might further infuriate your compatriots, who would make their displeasure known.  Regardless, significant doubt would be cast on his character and you should be able to argue successfully that this was the root of your failed dealings and not a lack of criminal integrity on your part.”

      “Criminal integrity… a nice thing to say.”

      “It is a situational integrity, I admit, but your adherence to some degree of ethical conduct should be acknowledged.”

      “And I thank you for it. Ok… let’s poke at the weak spots here.  First…”

      “The fact that James and Sebastian will invite Dimmock to accompany them to view the goods for sale.”

      “That’s one, yes.”

      “Novice criminals such as James and Sebastian would be expected to make miscalculations and errors of judgement, would they not?”

      “Well… yes, but you’d have to be fairly stupid to ask the person you’re selling to along for your original deal.”

      “No, not for the actual deal, only to view what is on offer.  The story, if required, is that there exists a previous relationship between myself and the pair that has a measure of trust that I do not have with other possible buyers.  It shall present more as if they are brokering the deal between myself and Dimmock, rather than making the initial purchase and then reselling the merchandise secondarily.”

      “That… that’s likely what you should go with from the start.  It makes more sense and, if you’re serious about those two taking over my bit, then they won’t have to battle back from seeming like idiots for their first big operation.  They just give him a purchase price without a mention of what their cut is going to be.”

      “Ah, a laudable suggestion.  We shall amend our strategy to pursue that course of action.”

      “Next… while I like not having to move George’s stuff ourselves, I’m not thrilled about putting his storehouse out into the open.  If any of that, and I mean even a whiff of that, comes back on us, we’re all dead.”

      “I have thought of that.”

      “Oh, good.  Do tell.”

      “We shall assert that it was Dimmock who knew the location and told us.”

      “What?”

      “Given we are involved in a criminal enterprise, I see no compelling reason for honesty, at least, towards those who are also part of the criminal underworld.  If we are… ratted out… then our story shall shift to become one where Dimmock had goods to offer us, showed to us the location where they were housed and, subsequently, perpetrated some dishonorable act that cheated us or, less scathingly, simply cancelled the deal and we did not go through with the purchase.”

      “You… ok, that’s not bad, especially if Seb and Jim back you up and they’re convincing about it.  That he’s caught red-handed with George’s shit isn’t going to make anyone want to believe anything he has to say, because they’ll know he’d say anything to save his arse.  But… the more scrutiny on this, on you, specifically, the more chance it leads back to me.  That would cast doubt on what you were trying to pull.  Make it look exactly like what this is – setting the bastard up to take a fall.”

      “I shall wear a disguise.”

      “Oh no…”

      “What?  I am becoming quite the master of them.”

      “You’ve worn one!  And it wasn’t a very disgusey disguise, either.”

      “I shall, as they say, up the ante.”

      “Are we in fake beard territory now?”

      “I… perhaps.”

Greg closed his eyes, then rose to get something stronger than beer to drink.  His father was paying and would probably find Mycroft’s fake beard idea brilliant, so a few glasses of good scotch were the smallest penalty possible for the misery’s future support of the debacle.

Not that it would _necessarily_ be a debacle, but what his lover failed to factor into his analysis was that the more ways they had to trap that rat Dimmock, the more doors they opened for things to go wrong.  And, in this case, the going wrong would involve more people than the person’s whose arse was originally on the line.  It was a bold plan and, admittedly, he did prefer to go with bold plans when he had a choice, but _this_ bold plan could drag his Mycroft down, not only in reputation, but in his ability to walk or breathe if George put things together properly and came looking to settle the score.

      “Exactly how many of these young people does the vicar intend to immigrate to our respectable village?  We’re not a commune you know!  If I find a single marijuana plant growing I shall dig it up and bring it to the Bishop myself!”

Oh good.  Mrs. Turner wanted a chat.

      “Does he like a little weed in the evening?”

      “Preposterous.  I have no idea what the vicar intends, but let me be very clear…”

      “No communes, especially those for youthful Communists, will be tolerated in this village.”

      “PRECISELY!  See that the vicar is very well aware of my adamancy on this matter.”

      “I will.  Though, you might discuss the issue with Doctor Watson.  He’s a military man and probably has a lot of experience with the Commies, what with being in the Army.  And, he’s got one of the commune-hopefuls with him right now.  Make sure he gets an earful, too.”

      “Excellent idea.  See that my whisky is delivered to the table.”

Which she hadn’t actually ordered, a fact that did not slip Greg’s notice as she stalked away, bearing down on Jim and Seb like the wrath of god.  Placing an order for one scotch and one whisky to be delivered to the table nicely out of his earshot, Greg took the drink he was given and instead of returning to Mycroft’s table, seeing the vicar engaged with several of his flock, turned his direction towards Sherlock and Jim, feeling the blast of dark energy as he got closer to their makeshift lair.

      “What do you want, Lestrade?”

      “You getting a bad case of hemorrhoids, Sherlock?”

      “That is nonsensical.”

      “Poor thing.  Hemorrhoids already moved from his arse to your brain and now you’re mentally feeble.”

The in-stereo sigh of irritation made Greg’s heart overflow with gladness.

      “I presume you’re spectacularly-good in bed, because there is absolutely no other reason Mycroft would have an interest in you.  Even your boringness is boring.”

      “Sherlock!  Jim’s caught your brainorrhoids!  It’s contagious!”

With two young criminals busily planning his imminent death, Greg pulled out a chair and had a seat, ignoring the death stares like a champion.

      “Lestrade…”

      “Sherlock, in thirty seconds, I can have Mrs. Turner over there instead of with John and Sebastian.  Is what you’re going to say worth that?”

The look of horrified disgust on Sherlock’s face indicated, even to Jim’s eyes, that this was a fate best avoided, if it was humanly possible.

      “Good.  Now, I want from both of you, your actual opinion on this plan that you’ve concocted.  Not what you said to goad along Mycroft with his ideas you know could get him killed, but what you really think, because I can assure you, he’s ready to go forward right now with your John LeCarre spy shit and has no conception of how destroyed he could be if it takes a turn for the worse.”

Sherlock and Jim shared a look and, after a few moments, their superciliousness moved down the scale and the both actually sported something vaguely resembling on sincerity on their faces.

      “It has the highest probability of succeeding.”

      “Ok, Jim… Mycroft said you were brilliant with maths, so that’s a good argument from you.  Sherlock?”

      “Despite the rather deplorable potential for human error to sabotage the basic framework, Moriarty is correct.  Compared to the risk, the success potential is notably high and the degree to which Dimmock would be impacted is greater than for the former tactic.”

      “So, you’re both alright with this?”

      “Your brain is sad.”

      “Thank you, Jim, that’s nice of you to say.  Now, answer the question.”

Jim’s rolled eyes and Sherlock’s slow, judgmental shake of his head indicated Greg’s audience with the twin dark princes was over.  For now.  Later, he’d get each alone, when they had no reason or excuse to posture, and verify they believed this was the best way forward.  Any backpedaling or hedging their bets and he’d toss the whole fucking thing in the rubbish and make them start fresh.

      “Right.  The toddlers haven’t had their nap and are getting a bit cranky.  I’ll have a couple of bottles warmed and sent over so you can have your dinner before you take a little sleep.”

The hissing and muttered incantations of the foulest nature followed Greg away from the table and he rejoined Mycroft and associated table-visitors to continue their afternoon, which led to evening, getting them back to the vicarage for a quick late dinner, a small amount of conversation then a final scattering off to the various beds or bed-like analogues to end the night.

Whereas Greg dropped off to sleep with little effort, Mycroft wasn’t finding the task so easy to accomplish and, finally, rose from the sitting-room sofa and made his way to the kitchen to make a cup of tea to accompany him making some headway on the work that had begun to accumulate while his attention was elsewhere in recent days.  There was little surprise that his journey into the kitchen ended with him staring at the arse of a tall, hungry guest who was inspecting the interior of the refrigerator for a late-night snack.

      “I believe there remains a bit of beef and there is bread and jam in the cupboards if you require it.”

There was, also, little surprise that Sebastian’s startled self turned its head to face Mycroft and that face already had a bit of beef protruding from its lips.

      “Found it.”

      “That you did.  Verily, a mighty hunter you are.”

      “Thanks.”

      “You are welcome.”

      “Tea?”

      “If you like.”

      “No.  You.  You’re up for tea?”

      “Ah, yes.  That I am.”

Two of Sebastian’s fingers rose and Mycroft sighed softly and shook his head.  The young man had a bottomless stomach but, given his height and muscle mass, this was not entirely unexpected.  The thought of that, though, brought a measure of sadness to Mycroft’s heart, knowing how rare it was that the young man was able to eat his fill at any meal, given his and Jim’s financial status.

      “Two cups, it is.  Yours shall, of course, be weighty with sugar.”

Sebastian’s tiny ‘yes!’ echoed in the quiet kitchen as he turned back into the refrigerator to bring out the rest of the beef, a wedge of cheese and some leftover potatoes that Mrs. Hudson had harbored hopes of frying up in the morning with onion and a little bacon.  The key, now, to Mycroft, would be to ensure the correct head was whacked with her wooden spoon upon discovery of the theft and not his own, delicate cranium.

      “Which train shall you and James take tomorrow, Sebastian?  Will there be time to show to you more of our lovely village?”

      “Dunno.”

      “To the former or latter?”

      “Both.”

      “Very well.  I shall make no firm plans and simply… play the cards I’m dealt.”

      “Bread?”

      “Oh, do pardon me.  I forgot I was manager of this little café.”

One of Mrs. Hudson’s prize loaves was brought down and Mycroft mourned how little would likely return once Sebastian was done.  It was a lovely wheat and honey recipe and he had not tasted a crumb.

      “Probably midday.”

      “I… ah, you have amended your ‘dunno’ to something more quantitative.”

      “Could be wrong.”

      “It is ever the case for us all with our pronouncements.”

Getting the kettle going, Mycroft decided he might as well use the time to talk about certain matters with Sebastian that were best addressed when the younger man was alone without other ears to hear their words.

      “While we have this bit of time together, though it is somewhat an abrupt shift in our conversation… Sebastian…are you certain this is the course you wish to navigate?”

Mycroft made mental note of the slight pause of the breadknife murdering the fresh loaf, as well as the tiny flash in Sebastian’s eyes as he continued on with the breadicide and gave his answer.

      “Yep.”

      “I am speaking not only of this little enterprise, but of the broader picture, as well.”

      “Still yep.”

      “I see.  John did not convince you to look in a different direction.”

      “Nope.  But…”

      “Yes?”

      “He knows people, in London.”

      “I would assume so, for he does not strike me as particularly introverted.”

      “They’re experts in… things.”

      “Philately?”

      “Stamps aren’t that interesting.”

      “I find my day is made far more joyful when there is a particularly colorful stamp affixed to the morning post.”

      “You’re strange.  John’s mates know things.  Fighting, explosives…”

      “Sebastian Moran, if you dare believe I shall encourage you to become some form of… mercenary…”

      “Not… necessarily.  Just… skills.”

And pursuing his interests, which Mycroft knew extended back to Sebastian’s youth.  If there ever was a person well-suited for the life of a cold-blooded mercenary, that person might have been Sebastian Moran, if there did not exist in him that small kernel of compassion which Mycroft had worked to develop for a goodly number of years.

      “Might they have access to weaponry, as well?”

      “Loads.”

      “Well, then… I wish you well.  I have no doubt John will ensconce you within the proper group of individuals to nurture your talents and interests.”

      “Thanks.  Butter?”

      “You were just in the refrigerator, Sebastian.”

      “My hands were full.”

      “Lovely.”

Mycroft put two cups of steeping tea on the table and turned attention to the next item on his order pad.

      “You gonna stay with Greg?”

That was not an item on his order pad!  But, it was an interesting question,. nevertheless…

      “It is my hope that I shall, yes.”

Mycroft set the butter on the table and watched Sebastian think a moment, then nod slightly.

      “He’s done some shitty stuff.”

      “I… yes, he has.  Gregory, like all of us, has moral failings, though he is more prone to act on his than others might.”

      “You ok with that?”

      “No, which is why I seek, and always have sought, to guide him from those impulses.  It shall be the work of a lifetime, but it is work I take on gladly.  Like others I have come to know, he has the light of goodness within and devoted work allows it to shine brightly.”

      “Kids?”

      “Gregory is most beloved by the village children.”

      “Do you want kids?”

Good heavens… Sebastian was most nosy tonight.  However, given Sebastian was only this vocal and nosy when he was truly interested in a topic or harbored genuine concern about a situation… going forward with honesty and the strength of the Lord’s support…

      “We _have_ discussed the matter, in point of fact, and feel that, if we are blessed with the opportunity, it shall be one we cherish.”

      “Is that a yes?”

      “It is.”

      “Ok.”

Conversations with Sebastian were always scintillating and brimming with detail, even when there was clearly some ulterior motive lurking beneath the words.  It, truly, was one of Sebastian’s most valuable talents.

      “Is there anything else about which you would like to inquire per Gregory’s and my relationship?”

      “Staying here?”

      “That… that is something of a conundrum at this point.  My life here is a rich and rewarding one, but Gregory’s heart had always belonged to London.  We have much to discuss on that front.”

      “Nope.”

      “Pardon?”

      “He’s happy here.”

      “I… really?”

      “He’s calm.”

      “That is not precisely how I would describe Gregory.”

      “I’ve seen him before.  On edge, always on the move, popping pills, fucking half of London, fighting the half he doesn’t fuck… he’s calm here.  He’ll stay.  Long as you want him.”

The entire conversation was a highly puzzling one for Mycroft, but he could not deny the strong surge of warmth both from Sebastian’s interest in his renewed relationship with his lover, and tacit approval of said relationship, as well as the younger man’s confidence that his Gregory would choose a life here where, even _he_ could see, his Gregory’s mind and soul were far more at peace now than when he had first arrived.  Or, when they were young.

      “I appreciate your assessment of the situation.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      “And, you will now reciprocate and provide an assessment of your situation with James.”

      “Nope.”

      “Sebastian, fair is fair.  Are you hoping to remain together?  Are children a part of your vision for the future?  Where might I address the gift I shall send for your nuptials?”

      “Funny.”

      “I think so, but it is an opinion shared by few, to my eternal dismay.”

      “We’re… good.”

      “Define ‘good.’ “

      “The opposite of bad.”

      “Perhaps, though good, however, is not as laudable as ‘great.’ “

      “Great is dumb.”

      “I disagree.”

      “Films are great.  Food is great.  Snakes are great.”

      “None of which stands in support of your ‘dumb’ argument.”

      “You don’t use the same word for them as… stuff.”

      “Do you mean love?”

      “I mean stuff.”

      “I see.  Then let me ask this… are you content with the current status of your stuff?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Would you go so far as to declare that you are happy?”

      “Dumb.”

      “You would declare yourself dumb.  Very well, I shall note that for the record.”

Cheese made a surprising thump when it struck one on the nose, as Mycroft was now aware.

      “I’m happy.”

      “Then I shall consider the matter closed.  Though… I have great hopes that I shall, now, once again be available to you and James both for any and all assistance I might provide.  As with Gregory, I mourn greatly the years we have been apart and I would hope to see that changed.  Anything I can do to help, at any time, please do not hesitate to ask.”

      “Anything?”

      “Anything legal.”

      “What degree of legal?”

      “Sebastian…”

      “I’ll keep it in mind.”

And, from the smirk, which seamlessly morphed to a tiny smile, Mycroft had confidence that he would.

      “Excellent.  Now, I shall take my… oh, now that you have consumed my tea…”

      “Thirsty.”

      “I am now aware.  Now that I have _gazed_ upon my tea, I shall retire to my study and tend to some matters of work.  Do leave something for our breakfast, if at all possible.”

      “No promises.”

Knowing there would be, at minimum, a few slices of bread and jam left for Jim, though the rest of them may languish starving, Mycroft put his teacup on the counter and settled his mind into a proper frame to work on church issues.  It was a surprisingly restful mindset now, given the anarchy of his new family life.  Frankly, running the country would be a more restful thing than managing this lot, but one accepted one’s burdens as gladly as one’s gifts.  More’s the pity…

__________

      “Fuck me, Greg.  That’s loony!”

Phoning Anderson had been Greg’s first act of the new day and it was going as swimmingly as expected.

      “Yeah, but… what do you think?  Besides the looniness?”

      “It could work.”

      “That was fast.”

      “Sometimes loony is the best thing for a problem.  It explains, too, why Dimmock started strutting about a bit.  Saw him in a club last night and you’d think he’d been crowned king or something.”

      “Think he’d go for being taken along to see George’s shit with Seb and Jim?”

      “Probably.  First, he’s arrogant enough to believe they won’t know he’s trying to scam them and are too naive to realize you don’t let a buyer see _anything_ about your end of a sale.  Also… if he’s not already trying to work out how to get the goods for himself, this will likely tip him right over the edge.  They play it right and he’ll bite.”

      “Then we do this.  Soon as George is gone, we’ll get a meeting set at his storehouse and keep an eye on Dimmock to see if and when he moves.”

      “We’ve got a narrow window, so make sure they press that the deal has to go down soon.”

      “I will.”

Putting away his mobile, Greg took stock of the situation.  His dad was out of it now, because they didn’t need a lorry.  Good.  Mycroft was still in it, because they needed a seller.  Not good.  Merchandise might never actually be in their hands.  Good.  Shining the light on George’s place.  Very not good.  But, what George didn’t know wouldn’t ultimately hurt him.  Or, if he _did_ know, it, hopefully, would only hurt that weasel Dimmock.

Alright, then.  Carry on and hope for the best.  They weren’t stupid or brash… much… so they could do this and make it a success.  They had to… there was no other choice.  He couldn’t let this fail and fuck up his chance to finally do something with his life more than… live.  That was incentive enough for a trial Hercules wouldn’t even take on.

Just had to keep Mycroft away from the fake beards…

__________

      “Gregory!”

      “No fake beards!”

      “it is not a beard, per se, it is a goatee.”

      “No goats either.  Or mustaches or peg legs or anything else.”

      “Your hatred of panache is deplorable.”

      “You sound like Jim.”

      “Dear me… you are right.  I already have slipped into character!”

      “Oh god…”

That his Mycroft wasn’t particularly nervous about tonight was a good thing, to Greg’s mind, but his _enthusiasm_ about tonight was insane!  You’d think it was opening night for some stage play the way Mycroft had flitted about trying on different outfits, voices, hair styles… he was more excited than for his first round of playacting.  Oh no… that might mean Mycroft was getting to like it.  The last thing they needed was the ridiculous vicar stirring up the amateur thespians to put on some dreadful rendition of Midsummer Night’s Dream!  He’d have to do all the work for the stage and backdrops and props and he didn’t know how to paint faeries!  This was a catastrophe!

At least he was the only one today having to serve as dresser for the budding actor.  The London contingent had been sent home, with various amounts of tears, to have a few days of normal life before this came to a head and that had given him the time to just focus on his Mycroft and where this was leading.  Jim and Seb had been surprisingly difficult to push back to London, though they camouflaged that difficulty with any amount of complaining about the tedium and quantity of nature involved with vicarage life and it wasn’t much easier with Sherlock and John.  He suspected they all were a bit worried about Mycroft, who was taking great pleasure in what he saw as a grand adventure and wanted to be sure he didn’t go further round the bend with things.  It was a welcome thing they’d left, though, because the fake beards, alone, would have caused a riot.  And now…

      “No wigs!”

      “For whatever reason?  I find the blond one to be particularly nefarious looking.”

This was _not_ going to be easy.

__________

With Mycroft looking very much as he had when he met Seb at the pub in London, with the addition of a jacket that Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson had fought like angry badgers to have included in his disguise because it made the vicar, in their opinion, look mysterious and formidable, their arrival in London and reconnoitering with the other members of the ‘gang,’ occurred with little fanfare.  Then, it was a quick review of what to expect, what to do and not do, and a quick moment of awkward silence while Mycroft insisted on a prayer for blessings upon their little venture from heaven above.  With that done, Mycroft, Greg, Sherlock, John and Anderson squeezed into the car Anderson had obtained for the night and made their way out of London towards their destination, which was a dilapidated building an hour out of the city that looked as if it hadn’t seen a visitor in decades.  However, that was a very different image than what they saw inside when Anderson tapped in the code on the electronic lock and opened the door once they’d hidden the car neatly out of sight.  It certain was, in the constable’s opinion, a tidy bit of remodeling to secure any amount of purloined merchandise.  Large, lots of shelves and overhead supports to hold even more boxes and crates… perfect for the man who stole often and stole big.

      “Looks like George did some renovating of this haunted house.  I have to admit, I’d pass this by without a second glance from what the exterior looks like.”

      “Nice confession that you, a constable, is as unobservant as a bespectacled pensioner, Anderson.”

      “Fuck off, Sherlock.”

      “No.”

      “Enough, brother.  What time, Gregory, shall the others arrive?”

Greg checked his watch and was happy that Mycroft was putting his thumb on Sherlock’s nonsense.  Now was not the time for any degree of foolishness, from any of them.

      “Half an hour.  We should be in position before that, though, in case they’re early.  Wouldn’t put it past Dimmock to push for that to try and put you on the defensive.  Gain an advantage.  Basically, be a jerk, though he’d see it as appearing clever or dominant.”

      “Ah, then prepared we shall be.  There appears to be many places for you to remain out of sight.”

      “Out of sight but close, love.  We’ll be close and if there’s any trouble, I won’t let it get to you.”

      “My protector.”

      “My ears are bleeding!”

      “Your brother has a medical problem.  John, handle that, ok?”

      “No.”

      “Anderson, you did first aid.”

      “ _I’m_ not touching him.”

      “Sorry, Sherlock.  Try not to lose too much blood, because I’m not carrying your dead body to the car.”

Sherlock’s response went on for some time while the others decided on the best places to stay _out_ of sight, but _within_ sight of the room’s center, as Greg continually reassured Mycroft, who found the gesture supremely touching.  When headlamps flashed across a bank of windows, the room froze for a moment, then Greg gave Mycroft a final kiss and left him to try and look casual and all-business as the rest of them scrambled towards their hiding spots.

It was only a few moments before three people walked into the storehouse and Mycroft found himself rather disappointed in the appearance of the one he hadn’t met.  Dimmock was a slight, ordinary-looking man with a mildly-annoyed expression that Mycroft felt certain was the normal look on his plain, pale face.

      “You Mikey?”

Even the man’s voice had no flavor.  The banality of evil was most banal, indeed.

      “I am.  And you must be Mr. Dimmock.”

Note the nod to politeness and professionalism, you cad.

      “Yeah.  So… hear you’re hoping for a nice deal.”

Yes, Jim and Sebastian… note correctly that this criminal has already decided to usurp your negotiation.  How delightful!

      “I would say that anyone in our business would claim that as a goal.”

      “Fair point.  These two… smart of them to want a piece of all of this.  Told them I’d done this sort of deal hundreds of time and would see they were treated right.”

      “Something for which, I have no doubt, they are most grateful.  Few in our game are willing to take time to support the younger generation’s aspirations.”

      “Oh, I’m all about that.  Aspirations, that is.”

Mycroft was highly proud of Sebastian and Jim, who were valiantly restraining themselves from knifing Dimmock in the back as even _he_ was beginning to fantasize about the odious man’s gruesome death.  The Lord would surely forgive him this one murder.  From many angles it could be considered a _very_ good deed.

      “Excellent, then we shall, as they say, get along fine.”

      “Oh, I have no doubt.  So… let’s talk numbers, shall we?”

      “Yeah, why don’t you two do that?”

Four visible heads and four not-visible ones whirled at the new voice and Greg bit back a curse seeing Ginger George’s second-in-command standing inside the now-open rear door, with a brace of large, rough-looking men at his back.  Quickly shooting a glance at the other in-hiding allies, he bit back another curse, since none of them seemed to have the confident look on their face that said ‘I know just what to do!’  This was bad.  This was very, very bad… and, with his fucking luck, it was about to get a lot worse…


	28. Chapter 28

At the first motion towards his brother, Sherlock got a quick shake of the head from Greg and snarled back his frustration and sense of betrayal.  What was in Greg’s mind, though, was that a full-on brawl that was certain to leave people on the way to hospital or worse when, maybe, his lover’s amazing brain could work this out in a less violent fashion.  At least, that’s what Greg hoped was going through _Mycroft’s_ mind from Mycroft’s tiny motion with his hand that looked very much like a ‘not now’ sign.  Otherwise, he’d give Sherlock full permission to turn his head into custard with a cricket bat as payment for misreading his lover’s signal and not going with his own instinct to charge in and let the punches fly.

      “Ah, gentlemen.  Are you part of Mr. Dimmock’s entourage?  He _has_ described his rather lofty stature in our little business and that would certainly merit a contingent as formidable as yours.”

      “What?”

Greg now hoped his lover’s massive brain took into account how fucking tiny were the brains of _other_ people and, sometimes, the only thing they understood _was_ having their heads turned to custard by a cricket bat.  Sherlock seemed very ready to handle that part.

      “Are you gentlemen party to Mr. Dimmock’s sale of this merchandise to us?  I must say I am glad you are here, as it gives me confidence when, I mean if, we take delivery, there shall be help aplenty to load this cargo into our lorry.”

Mycroft tittered precisely as a rather clueless, poncy berk might at their little joke and it had the effect of (a) him being labeled a clueless, poncy berk by the new arrivals and (b) turning the new arrivals’ narrowed eyes towards Dimmock.

      “What do you mean this arsehole’s sale?”

      “Of all of this!  Rarely am I sufficiently fortunate to find offered such an abundant and diverse assortment of goods, however, I am ever one to leap upon an opportunity when one is presented.”

      “You think this is his?”

      “That is what I was told.  And, I have yet to hear anything to the contrary.”

Sebastian and Jim had slowly moved so that they flanked Mycroft, more to show he wasn’t without support than to advertise their willingness to dive into a scrum.  Which Jim certainly wanted to avoid, but Sebastian was actually beginning to hope for as he did adore a solid dust up with men his own size and probable level of pain tolerance.

      “Really.  That’s what you were told… so, what you got to say for yourself, Dimmock, old cock?”

From the widened eyes and dropped jaw, Greg hoped Dimmock had a LOT to say and that it would just bring him closer to his own brain-plus-cricket-bat encounter.

      “He’s lying!  You know me… that bloke is a fucking liar!”

Oh dear, his beloved Mycroft didn’t like that one bit.  Or, was pretending he didn’t.  Regardless, it didn’t look like the vicar cum gangster was going to take accusation that lightly.

      “I would ask you keep your slanderous assertions to yourself, sir.  There is no cause to cast aspersions, when I merely reiterated the basic facts of our meeting.  If you are now saying you have no intention of selling to me, then I would have to question why you had me meet you here in the first place!  Have you no idea of the cost of petrol!”

While Greg nodded his approval, John kept his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, but his eyes and ears on the main part of the room where, he had to admit, Mycroft was doing to tremendous job appearing the offended buyer.  Now, it was a matter of getting George’s men to turn fully towards Dimmock and, hopefully, escort him away for a little chat.  Trying to sneak out of here while they were beating him senseless wasn’t going to be easy.  Maybe the windows opened quietly…

      “You… Mr. Toff…”

This time, it was Greg that needed a quick tug on his shirt to keep him in place, though Anderson wasn’t happy, either, with a beefy lummox lumbering towards Mycroft who, admirably, kept the peeved look on his face and never broke eye contact with the man approaching him.

      “… tell me what you know about this.”

      “Precisely what I have already summarized.  I was in the market to increase my supply of electronic goods and was approached with this particular offer.  I cannot say I was especially content with the fact that I could not view the merchandise until tonight and had to take delivery with full payment in less than two weeks’ time, but I decided to, at the very least, inspect the offer to decide if it was worth my time to pursue.”

      “Two weeks, huh?  And you couldn’t see anything until tonight.”

      “Correct.  And, it is, I believe, prudent on my part to declare, that I am, now, not interested in going further.  I do not appreciate being called a liar but, more importantly, I am beginning to get the sense that something is terribly amiss.”

      “You… you could say that.”

Now, the eyes looking at Dimmock were far darker of purpose and Mycroft began to rethink matters.  Lying while in a deceitful situation was one thing, but lies that brought physical harm were quite another.

      “I’ve heard some things about you, Dimmock.  Some deals that got fucked and some people, too… all with your stink on it.  Trying that again?”

      “What?  NO!  You don’t even know this bastard and you’re giving me the bent eye?  What are you, stupid?  You’d have to be to think I’d fuck over Georgie!  Stupid as a rock!”

Mycroft felt a little better about _this_ scowl on their new guest’s face, because any subsequent beatings would certainly be rooted heavily in that particular bit of insult and less in his own part in the deception.

      “Stupid?  Stupid is having pics taken of Fat Sid’s wife while she was having a go with another man.  Why haven’t you used them yet?”

Greg’s head whirled around to look at Anderson who was smiling a ‘who me?’ smile and earning himself a favor or ten from Greg for that bit of independent work.

      “WHAT!  What the fuck are you talking about?  I haven’t… what are you trying to pull, Rob?  If you’re trying to put something on me, I’ll tell you right now, that I’ll see you…”

      “See me what, Dimm-wit?  Lads, I think we need to have a chat with this one.  Outside.”

Greg muttered a silent Yes! and shared a satisfied nod with the others in-hiding.  That satisfaction changed quickly though when Dimmock drew out the same small gun he’d used the night this entire business started.  Then it was a different sort of nod Greg gave and only to Anderson, who nodded back and took a deep breath, jamming his hand in his jacket pocket.

      “No, I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere with the likes of you.”

      “Right now, you’ve got a chance to talk your way out of this.  Maybe.  I’d advise you to take it.”

      “Bollocks.”

      “Those might get their own bit of bashing if you don’t put that away.”

      “Nah, I’m holding onto this until I’m out of there.  Alone.”

      “You know that little toy isn’t going to do much, mate.  Not against someone like me.  Just make me mad and that’s not something you really want right now.”

      “Maybe, maybe not.  Depends on how much you care about being drawn into a murder charge.”

Watching the next split-second occur over an hour’s time, Greg saw Dimmock swing the muzzle of his gun from pointing at his current adversary, Sebastian shove Jim away and move to do the same for Mycroft who was just enough steps away that the single fired bullet struck Mycroft cleanly and had the vicar dropping to the ground as Dimmock and Ginger George’s men scrambled to get away from the scene.

      “Mycroft!”

Running towards his lover, felt his own blood grow cold even as Mycroft’s began to spread over the floor.

      “Gr… Gregory…”

      “Shhhh… don’t talk, love.  Save your strength.  John’s here, remember?  He’ll look after you.”

Something Greg impressed upon the good doctor with a ‘get on with it!’ look that had John racing to try and stop the blood loss and assess Mycroft’s injuries.

      “You… you must stop them, Gregory…”

      “They’re not getting far, I promise.”

      “Gr…”

      “You just lay quietly and let us worry about everything.”

And worry was about all they could do until help arrived, which, from the sound of the sirens in the distance, wouldn’t be a long wait.

      “Anderson, did you add on…”

      “Probably five or so minutes behind the police.”

Seeing there was information that they apparently lacked, the non-injured members of the team stared expectantly at Greg and Anderson who waved off their questions.  Now wasn’t the time for anything but focusing on getting Mycroft to hospital.

      “John, what’s the story?”

      “Everyone thinks small caliber bullets are less worrisome, but that’s bollocks.  They can do terrible damage since they can bounce around inside like a fucking rubber ball and savage a person.  They’ll know more when we get him to hospital.  I… an abdominal hit can be nasty, but this one… did I… those are sirens I hear, right?”

      “Yeah, police and Anderson let them know to dispatch an ambulance.  It’ll be here soon.”

      “Ok… I’m not going to ask why we have this good fortune, but if we can get Mycroft into an ambulance quickly… I’ve got my fingers crossed this will go the way we want it to.”

Greg wasn’t certain if John simply not saying plainly that things would be ok and Mycroft would be fine was typical doctor speak or if he didn’t want to commit to something he didn’t believe was true, but he was going to believe the fuck out of the former and ignore the latter because… Mycroft _had_ to be fine.  He had to be whole and well and happy and laughing and this was a silly, minor thing that would just need a few sutures and a good night’s sleep to put behind them.  Nothing else was acceptable.  If he had to find one of those bloody angels his love spoke to and drag the fucker down here by their halo to see his Mycroft happy and healed, he’d do in and woe be to the miserable winged bastard that tried to say it had other plans for the day…

__________

The following minutes were silent, with each man kneeling or squatting next to Mycroft and feeling their souls wither at how quickly the life seemed to be flowing out of him.  When headlamps flashed against the same set of windows as they had when this nightmare began, Greg drew a breath and prepared to go forward.

      “Sherlock, John, Jim, Sebastian… the police don’t know you’re here and certainly don’t need to find you.  Get out of sight and Anderson will let you know which hospital has Mycroft.”

      “Fuck that.  Going with you.”

      “No, Seb, you’re not.  The police know something shady was going down and we’ll be lucky enough if they don’t do a real search here before they secure the scene.  None of you need to get dragged further into the muck.  Go, there’s not much time.  You’re more help to Mycroft free and clear than in custody.”

Sebastian snarled, but nodded and rose, laying a hand on Jim’s shoulder to get him to follow.  John did the same and everyone noticed, but failed to comment on how reluctant both Jim and Sherlock were to leave the man lying on the storehouse floor.  It was only physical pulls upwards by their partners and walking them back to hide amongst the crates and shelves that got them away from Mycroft in time that when the police burst through the only thing they saw was one man pressing a jacket against the chest of another to staunch the blood flow and one man standing with his credentials in hand, lowly PC credentials that they were.  Fortunately, the sergeant in charge of things didn’t find that a problem.

      “You Anderson?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “What’s the situation.”

      “Chap there was part of the plan to take Dimmock and discover Ginger George’s little hiding place.  Dimmock got squirrely when George’s men arrived and shot that poor bugger as a distraction so he could get away.  Did you…”

      “We got them.  Already racing to point fingers, so I suspect we’ll get what we need and quickly.  All of this from the Burke robbery?”

      “Probably.  Didn’t have time to really check the inventory.  I wagered you lot would send a few lads back tomorrow to check what’s here against the insurance claim.”

      “We will, at that.  Who’s that one?”

      “Greg Lestrade.  He’s been working with me on this.”

      “Oh yeah… we’ve gotten notifications on him before.”

      “I know, so does he.”

Why was nobody helping Mycroft?  Greg nearly took his hands away from keeping Mycroft’s blood inside him to shake a fist at the police contingent.

      “How about we all focus on Mycroft, here and not me?  I’m not fucking going anywhere, but…”

The police sergeant couldn’t help but notice the pleading in Greg’s voice and remembered that arresting a potential suspect was not nearly as important as keeping a man alive.

      “Right.  The ambulance will be here in a few minutes and… Clarke, Robbins, get over there and do what you can to help.  I want you, Smith, outside to get the stretcher in here as quickly as possible.  Anderson, you come with me and I’ll call this in.  It’ll be a late night for us, I wager.”

Anderson gave Greg a quick nod, then followed the sergeant out of the building.  Luckily, for Greg’s mental health, the stretcher came barreling through the same door a few minutes later and people with real medical training took over from him and the well-meaning PC’s, loading Mycroft onto the stretcher and whisking him away.  After a few rather awkward glances, Greg held out his hands for the PC’s to cuff and escort him out to a waiting car.  Not that there were any charges, per se, but the constables decided you didn’t let a known criminal kneeling next to a gunshot victim toddle off for tea without a proper round of questioning.  From what they’d heard about this Lestrade character, there were probably other things they could charge him with if he was able to wriggle out of this mess, so having their hands on him could only be considered a good thing.

While Greg was failing to wriggle, but struggling to catch a final glimpse of Mycroft as the ambulance doors shut and he was taken off to, hopefully, start the road to recovery, the remaining four poked their noses out of their hiding places and John ran to a window to take a quick look out to assess the situation.

      “Ok… ambulance is gone and Greg’s in one of the cars waiting… I have no idea if they’re going to treat him as a suspect or witness, but I suspect they’ll try and pin something on him regardless.  He’ll need a solicitor and… we need to find out where they’ve taken Mycroft.  That’s supposing we can get out of here unseen.”

The soft pfft from Sebastian, Jim and Sherlock reminded John that he wasn’t in a room with average citizens and the whole party quickly surveilled the room, finding a window away from police eyes that didn’t creak overmuch when they opened it and crawled out, quietly moving into the trees and waiting until the police cars drove off, with the doors of the storehouse being padlocked with a police lock and two constables stationed outside to await the arrival of the fuller force to start moving evidence into police custody.

      “Well? What do we do now?”

John hoped someone knew the answer to his question, because he didn’t and had no desire to follow Greg off to jail.

      “We passed a village or something on the road we turned on to get here.”

Sebastian’s suggestion met with John’s approval, at least as a starting point, but Sherlock and Jim’s nerves were already too frazzled to find this acceptable.

      “Sebastian, you idiot!  That was… leagues ago!”

      “Nah, boss.  Maybe one league.”

      “Leagues.  Plural.  I’m not walking all that way.  In the dark.  In these shoes.”

      “I’ll carry you.”

      “I… ok.”

      “John!  You will also carry me leagues and leagues.”

      “Fuck off.”

      “That is scurrilous.”

      “And we’ve got walking to do.  Maybe as we get closer we can get a mobile signal.  I know a few people who might drive out to collect us.  Otherwise, maybe there’s a car to hire or a cabbie willing to make a large fare.  All else fails, there’ll probably be a bus in the morning.”

      “Regardless, the village may also be overridden with police and we won’t be exceptionally useful to my brother or Lestrade if we are languishing in some squalid cell.”

      “Maybe there _will_ be police, but they’re not looking for us.”

      “Four men appear on foot with nothing for leagues and leagues around and can’t claim to have vehicle trouble since we can’t claim the car we are abandoning.”

      “You’re a killjoy, Sherlock.”

      “Thank you.”

      “We’re still walking, though.”

      “Drat.”

Sebastian sighed and squatted slightly for Jim to hop up, so he could be piggy-back carried, and Sherlock looked mournfully as the small man turned his head and smirked at him.  Though the smirk didn’t last very long.  Jim couldn’t maintain his façade any more than could Sherlock, at least between themselves.  Mycroft’s life was too important to make light of any of this and that life… Mycroft had to survive this.  He had to.  There simply wasn’t any choice in the matter.  And if they were sending up little prayers to the god Mycroft believed in so deeply, just in case someone was listening, that could stay their own little secret…


	29. Chapter 29

      “Is this normal?”

John looked over Mycroft’s chart and couldn’t say he disliked what he saw.

      “Is what normal, Sherlock?”

      “That he… is not awake?”

      “Oh, yes, it can be.  Some patients wake fairly quickly after surgery, others don’t.  Depends on the strength of the medication they’re given, the degree of trauma, and the fact that every person is different to a larger degree than many people realize, for medical things, which is why diagnoses and treatments aren’t always right or things take much longer to heal than predicted.”

Sherlock nodded and went back to staring at his very still, very quiet brother.  They had gotten very lucky, in Sherlock’s opinion, that their arrival in the sleepy hamlet at the end of their march to Bataan that there was a mobile signal for John to secure them transport back to London and a pub open to purchase alcohol.  Lots of alcohol.  It was an acceptable depressant to settle nervous agitation and… that had been exceedingly necessary, in his case.  Seeing his brother’s face… there was almost no change/a staggering shift in Mycroft’s expression when the bullet hit, and it was the most terrifying sight he had ever seen.  And the blood… that was not an image that would leave his mind, not matter how hard he tried to force it away…

      “I see.  His chart?”

      “What I expected to find at this point and nothing that raises any particular flags.  I’d say… he should be alright.”

      “Are you certain?”

      “As certain as any doctor could be.  If you want to look for a dark cloud, there’s always the possibility of unexpected internal bleeding, adverse reaction to his medication, blood clots, organ damage that they didn’t notice or fix … there are always things that can go awry, Sherlock.  No doctor can ever guarantee that nothing bad will happen after surgery, but based on what I saw when I looked at his incision and what’s on the chart… and I may have had a chat with Mycroft’s surgeon when you were having your private chat with your brother.  It sounded as if he’s competent and that the surgery went well, at least, in my opinion.”

Sherlock’s ‘chat’ with his brother had been more of a morose staring at the unconscious Mycroft than an actual conversation, but John had decided a little privacy was warranted while Sherlock processed his emotions.  Emotions that had been miserably-difficult for Sherlock to contain since last night.  From his quick call to Sebastian this morning, John knew Jim was having the same problem and being as stubborn about not admitting it, too.  Two special peas in a very strange pod, but their affection for Mycroft was something that couldn’t be doubted.

      “Very well.  I shall accept your assessment.  But, how long… how long until he can go home?”

      “No idea.  I’d like to say a few days, but it could be longer.  Mycroft got very lucky, Sherlock, but it’s still a massive insult to the system his body is working through.  When he goes home, too, he’ll need lots of rest.  Luckily, Mrs. Hudson will be there to take care of him and…”

      “I will be there, also.”

      “Ok… that will certainly be helpful.  Especially with Greg… well, whatever is happening there.”

      “Did Anderson phone the solicitor he knew?”

      “I haven’t called to find out, I’m embarrassed to say.  I have no idea what happened last night, but the two of them seemed to have something going on nobody else knew about.  I suppose I’m hoping they have a plan for the fallout, too.”

      “I would not place that much faith in either Lestrade’s or Anderson’s intellect.”

      “Let’s hope they exceeded your expectations, but I’ll phone in a moment, regardless.  Someone… someone should also phone Greg’s parents.  That’s not going to be a pleasant conversation.”

      ‘You will do that.”

      “Oh, well, thanks.”

      “I shall phone Mrs. Hudson and inform her about Mycroft.”

John’s ‘oops’ face did not make Sherlock feel better about matters, but it did bring a tiny smile to his face, thought it disappeared just as quickly.

      “Right.  Yeah, sorry for being testy.  I forgot she doesn’t actually know what’s happened.”

      “Anderson first.  If Lestrade does not have legal representation then, perhaps, his parents might arrange it.”

      “That’s smart.”

      ‘I am a genius, after all.”

      “That you are.  Want tea with that genius?”

      “Hospital tea?  Are you trying to tell a joke?”

      “I know how to get the real goods from the hardworking nurses who have their own kettle and supply well away from tea thieves.”

      “Then your joke is riotously funny and I want tea as my reward for acknowledging that fact.”

      “Thank you.  It’ll tide us over until Seb and Jim arrive, at least.’

      “I doubt it shall be an extended wait.”

      “Probably not, but it’s always better to be prepared.”

      “And preparation is always better with tea.”

      “There’s that genius, again.”

      “It dazzles even me, at times.”

__________

      “Inexcusably lazy.”

Sebastian nodded as he had the last hundred times Jim had muttered an insult about Mycroft since they’d gotten back to London because a reply was neither necessary nor expected, and it was all Jim’s way of letting out his emotions while keeping them hidden at the same time.

      “John said he’d wake up when he was ready.”

      “He should be ready now.”

      “Probably happy for the quiet.  You talk a _lot_.”

      “Oh ha ha ha.  At least, what I say has value and merit unlike your Neanderthal grunts.”

      “Ok.”

      “And… move the flowers more where he can see them.”

Sebastian made sure not to smirk as he budged forward the flowers Jim had stolen from an unobservant florist, which were resting in the vase _Sebastian_ had stolen from an unobservant hospital shop employee.”

      “He’ll like them.”

      “If the lay-about decides ever to open his eyes and see them.”

      “He will.”

      “Not soon enough.  Does he have any idea how busy I am?”

      “You’ve told him.  He knows.”

      “But does he _know_.  Really and truly know how in demand is my time?”

      “Yeah.  Just resting for awhile.  He needs it.”

      “Pfft.  _I_ need rest.  I need a _lot_ of rest.  But, do I get any?  No.”

      “Rest, then.  I’ll keep watch.”

      “No.”

      “Ok.”

      “I can’t be asleep when he wakes up.  How am I supposed to tell him how lazy he is if I’m asleep?”

      “True.”

      “You need to make certain he listens, too.  Hold his eyes open or something.”

      “You don’t listen with eyes.”

      “Look at you, Mr. Anatomy.”

      “That’s _is_ what you do with eyes.”

      “Funny.  I want to make certain, extremely certain, he listens to everything I have to say.”

      “He’s good at that.”

      “Wrong.”

      “I talked to him.  At the vicarage.”

      “I did, too.  Your point?”

      “No, you talked _at_ him.  I talked _to_ him.”

      “Potato, potahto.”

      “He said… he’d always be there for us.”

      “Lovely.”

      “Whatever we might need, he’d help.”

      “Marvelous.”

      “It’s nice there.  Where he lives.”

      “Fantas…”

Jim narrowed his eyes at Seb, who continued to quietly chew the piece of gum that was serving as lunch.

      “Say that again.”

      “It’s nice there.  Where he lives.”

      “Boring.”

      “Not for everyone.  Greg’s not the arsehole I thought, either.”

      “His arsehole is going to be popular in prison.”

      “Maybe.  He’ll go back, though.  To Mycroft.”

      “Who cares?”

      “They’re a good couple.”

      “Like I said, who cares?”

      “They do.”

      “Neither of the ‘they’ is me, so boring.”

      “You should tell him.”

      “Tell who what?”

      “Mycroft.  You should talk to him.”

      “I will.  Loudly.”

      “Then really talk to him.  After you’ve done your yelling.”

      “I have nothing to say beyond that.”

      “Ok.”

      “Eat your gum.”

Sebastian swallowed loudly and nodded, hiding his smile when Jim gave his most exasperated sigh and flung himself into a seat next to Mycroft’s bed.  In a few minutes, Sebastian decided, he’d need to find more gum and would take a long walk through the hospital building to give the other two time to talk.  His Jim needed that right now.  Talk and talk when Mycroft couldn’t hear.  It would make it easier for opportunity when he could to a wide-awake vicar who’d listen to everything and never, ever judge.  Which would happen, he felt certain, sooner than later.  Jim just needed to work through things in his own unique way, in his own time, first.  It’d always been that way and, undoubtedly, it always would, too.  But that was alright.  He wouldn’t have his lover any other way than the way he was now.

      “Sebastian!”

      “Yeah?”

      “Prop my feet on the bed.”

Sometimes his lover’s crown was a little too tight on his head, though.  Made him peevish… and made _him_ want a beer…

__________

      “Oh, I’m going to box his ears.”

Greg’s mother handed Mrs. Hudson her box of tissues, after taking one for herself.

      “We’ll both do it, Martha.  One person for each ear.  Graham can stomp his foot when he gets back from talking to the doctor.”

      “Perfect.  This is such mess… couldn’t he have leapt out of the way of the bullet like they do on the telly?”

      “Maybe he was caught by surprise.  I’d imagine you’d need a bit of a head’s up for something like that and… oh, those silly boys don’t want to say much about it, and I don’t know why.  We’re part of the gang!  What are they worried about?”

      “I have no idea.  Maybe… the less the say, the better for Greg?”

Mrs. Hudson quickly handed back the tissues because even the thought of Greg sitting in a cell waiting for whatever was coming his way made his mother break down in heavy, rolling tears.

      “M.. maybe.  Then, why won’t they talk about _that_!  Why he’s in jail?  Why is this all a secret?”

      “Well…”

Mrs. Hudson’s quick nod towards the window moved them out of earshot of Mycroft, not that he could actually hear anything, but it was the principle of the thing and she was very much a proponent of principle.

      “I got Sherlock to admit that he doesn’t know what happened that put Greg in jail.”

      “That doesn’t make sense.”

      “That’s why he didn’t want to admit it.  He can’t fathom it out, either.  And Constable Anderson isn’t answering his calls.  Sherlock even broke into the poor man’s flat, but it looked as if he hadn’t been home.”

      “And the police won’t even let us see Greg.  They say he’s being questioned and we can see him once his solicitor has had his chance and says it’s alright.  But, we don’t even know who his solicitor is and they won’t tell us that either!”

      “That’s not very fair.”

      “Graham said it’s Greg’s business, not ours, so it’s probably legal and proper, but it’s _definitely_ not fair.  How are we supposed to help him if we don’t know what’s going on?  What if… oh, I hate to even say it, but what if they think Greg shot Mycroft?”

      “Oh dear.  I hadn’t thought of that.  Wouldn’t that Anderson boy have told them differently?”

      “They might think he was in on it, too, and that’s why Sherlock can’t find him.  He’s being grilled like Greg.  Coppers don’t do well in prison, either, from what I’ve heard.”

      “I’ve heard that, too.  Well, _we_ know that nice constable didn’t shoot Mycroft.  He could have done that anytime, Katie, for pity’s sake.  I’ll be certain to tell any judge that very thing, too.”

      “I will, as well.  It’s silly to think of either of them shooting Mycroft.  Greg could have strangled him in bed!”

      “Poisoned him.”

      “Pushed him into a well on one of their walks.”

      “All sorts of nasty murders.”

      “And not one did he commit.  All those chances and not one single murder.  That should be convincing enough, I would wager.”

      “I would suspect so, Martha, but you know how sneaky those prosecutors can be.”

      “True.  When we find out who Greg’s solicitor is, we’ll let him take our statement and make certain it gets into the record, even if they try to keep us from testifying for either of those poor boys.”

      “Good idea. We should begin writing those while we have a quiet moment.”

      “I’ll find pen and paper.  Mycroft won’t mind if we work while we visit with him.  After all, I _have_ heard that people sometimes don’t remember detaisl about being shot, the shock and trauma and all of that, you now, so he’ll be happy we took the initiative.”

      “I just know he will.  He’s a good boy like that.”

      “We can’t let him know how good he is, though, or he’ll be impossible to live with.”

      “Sherlock will knock him down a peg if that happens.”

      “That’s true, so I suppose we can tell him he’s a love every chance we get.”

With shared smiles of anticipation, the hunt began for statement-scripting tools and, also, some socks for Mycroft’s feet.  Poor thing looked cold lying there and cozy socks always made such a difference.  Or, they could make some.  Warm, thick socks to keep his toes toasty while he wasn’t able to get up and about a great deal.  That was the ticket.  And, how nice that there were two of them to get the knitting done.  Twice as many pairs of socks in half the time.  Really, people could take lessons from them in efficiency…

__________

Oh dear… this was not his cozy bed…

      “There you are, love.  I was getting w…worried.”

That _was_ , however, his cozy lover…

      “Gregory…”

      “Right here, Mycroft.  No!  No, just lie still and rest.  You’re alright, now, but… just rest.”

Why was there so much fog in his brain?  It was as if… oh.  Oh, yes…

      “I… I was shot.”

      “Yeah, you were.  But, it’s ok, now.  Doctors did a great job and they say you’ll be fine with nothing to show for that miserable business but a sexy scar.”

The fog in his head wasn’t thick enough that Mycroft missed the rushed, slightly panicked tone to Greg’s voice and he realized that his situation was either not as stellar as his lover was pretending or it was, but only now, which might not have been the case earlier on.  Given he had been shot, the latter was not certainly not a surprise.

      “The others?”

      “Sherlock, John, Jim and Seb got away from everything without anyone the wiser.  They’ve been here, checking on you, keeping Mum, Dad and Mrs. Hudson informed, though they’ve all peeked in to make certain they weren’t being lied to.  I’d expect some very warm jumpers, blankets and scarves soon because Mum and Mrs. Hudson both said you looked cold and fondled your feet to gather evidence.  Sorry, love, but your future is full of itchy wool and I won’t be stepping in to save you because they’ll shoot me and that’d put me one up on you again!  Can’t have you going and trying to even the score, now can I?”

Mycroft blinked a few times to further clear both his vision and his mind, and took in his surroundings more fully.  A hospital room, which was not unexpected.  Flowers on the stand next to the bed which bore styles and color choices that implied both masculine and feminine tastes.  A constable standing just outside the door which was… strange.  But… 

      “The police.  They we there…”

      “Yeah.  Lucky thing, too!  They swept the whole nasty lot in one big net and the songs they’re singing to give their arses the shortest time possible warming a cot in prison are simply lovely.”

      “Why?”

      “I think the ‘shortest time possible’ bit was rather self-explanatory.”

      “No… the police.  Why were they there?”

      “To arrest people!  That’s a rather obvious bit, too.  I think you need some more rest, love.  How about another nap, then you can have some lovely hospital gruel for lunch.  Mum’s stopping in this afternoon to fit you for your new wool pyjamas, so you’ll need all your energy to fight off her measuring tape.”

      “Gregory… you are being deceitful.”

      “Me?  Sweet, innocent me?  Rest, love.  I also think Seb and Jim are going to visit later, though that’s probably to see if you have any organs they can harvest to sell on the black market.”

      “Gregory…”

Mycroft gave Greg the best stern look he could, given he was heavily medicated and lying in a hospital bed.  It was, however, more than sufficient to win him a long sigh and nod from the man who looked as if he hadn’t seen any sleep for days.

      “Alright.  Anderson called them, on my signal.”

      “I… I do not understand.”

      “It’s like this, love… the more I thought about your idea, the less I liked it.  It exposed you too much.  I know Sherlock and Jim and the rest thought this was the smartest plan, but… I couldn’t risk you getting hurt.  Especially, when I know Dimmock.  He had a gun with him for the deal that got me into all of this!  Same fucking one, I suspect, that shot you.  If he felt cheated or threatened, what was to stop him doing to you or Seb or Jim what he did to me?  When I talked to Anderson about it, he agreed I had a point.  We… we sort of made our own Plan B.”

      “P… Plan B?”

      “Yeah.  A bit of insurance if things went bad, which they did.  Anderson approached his Inspector and said he had a line on the Burke robbery, the one Ginger George’s boys did, and that he might be able to get in on things so they could get the stuff back and lay hands on the ones who took it.  Said… said I was his contact, which lent some weight to his words, since I’ve been on police radar for years, though they could never put anything specific on me.  Anderson got permission to follow his lead and had a transmitter with him.  Supposedly, it was there to signal his mates when it was the right time to send cars, but, really, it was there if we saw trouble that turned dangerous.  If he didn’t use it that night, he’d have used it another time, maybe, or never.  We could have ultimately said the lead didn’t go anywhere, that I’d got bad information… wouldn’t have looked great for Anderson, but it’s not uncommon at all for that to happen.  I should have given him the nod when George’s monkeys stormed in… didn’t even think about an alarm on the door!  Well, I did, but I assumed it would be the type to blare out loud, not silently inform someone that the door had been opened.  Never going to make _that_ mistake again.  In any case, when I saw Dimmock pull his fucking piece, I gave Anderson the sign.  Luckily, there are codes for things and calling for an ambulance is one, so he did that the instant the shot was fired.”

      “And you did not tell me.”

      “I hoped it wouldn’t be needed.  Besides… look, it worked, didn’t it?”

That was not what his lover had first intended to say.  Which means there was something else he _wasn’t_ saying…

      “Gregory…”

      “Yes, my love?”

      “Why is there a police constable standing outside my door?”

      “Why would I know?”

      “Because he has looked in here twice as if to verify either you or I am still present.”

      “Maybe he’s a nosy git.”

      “What are you not saying, Gregory?”

      “Lots of things!  Can’t say everything at once or it’d all be a garbled mess and where would that get me?”

So, what was not being said was weighty, indeed.  Consider…. Constable Anderson goes to his Inspector, as a simple uniformed policeman, and claims to have valuable knowledge that could lead to a major arrest.  Would the Inspector believe that was true?  Or would he want further evidence that the information was valid?

      “It seems rather odd that the police would agree to sit in wait for something as nebulous as Constable Anderson’s claim.  I would assume their resources, which are not unlimited, would preclude such a thing.”

      “Told you, he said he got information from me.” 

      “Someone who, to the police, would not have an exemplary reputation for honesty.”

      “The police use informants all the time.”

      “Yes, but… not one, I suspect, who was also, as they say, on the lam.”

      “Uh… those would be the ones _most_ likely to act as informants.”

      “Perhaps, but they might also stay the most silent, for cooperation with the police might compound their problem with their criminal brethren if their betrayal was discovered.”

      “You’re thinking too smart for the likes of me and mine, Mycroft.”

      “Where are your flowers?”

      “What?”

      “Flowers, card… I see nothing here that says you have previously visited me, though I see clear evidence of others.”

      “I’ve been here!  In any case, your lover isn’t the one to bring flowers and cards.  That’s for friends and relatives.  I’ve been here, Mycroft.  A lot.”

Your tone says otherwise, my dear.

      “Gregory, if you do not speak to me with honesty…”

      “Can we… can’t you simply rest for now and we can talk about things later?”

      “No, for I am, now, not certain you _shall_ be here.  That constable is present for you, that much is plain.  I would know the reason why.”

      “I… I don’t want to upset you, love.  Not while you’re so weak.”

      “I shall be more upset if I have to lie here unknowing of what is going on.”

Greg’s eyes were so heavy with reluctance that Mycroft almost relented, but steeled himself against his compassionate instincts and held his lover’s gaze until Greg exhaled loudly and ran a hand through his hair.

      “Fine.  You’re right.  Inspector Gregson said he had no intention of devoting resources to our story, especially if there was no guarantee that anything would come of it.  If Anderson was a detective or something, maybe, but… it was too flimsy and, even though the potential payoff was enormous, he couldn’t justify it.  So… I offered him a guaranteed payment for his help.”

      “What?  What did you offer?”

      “Me.”

      “P…Pardon?”

      “I gave him enough on me that he’d have a conviction, no matter if everything else came to naught.”

      “Gregory… you didn’t…”

      “I confessed to a few things, with bank records to back me up.  Enough to see a few years from the other side of a set of bars.”

      “That… that is ridiculous!  You had no idea our plan would fail!”

      “I had a feeling.  I can’t explain it, but I had a feeling and it kept getting stronger that… this wasn’t going to go our way.”

      “You are _not_ that superstitious, Gregory Lestrade.”

      “Not usually, but I’ve also learned to trust my instincts for that sort of thing.  And… maybe I was also thinking that I was having it too good.”

Mycroft’s head was spinning wildly, but not because of his medication.

      “I… I have no idea what that means.”

      “You lead a bad life and into it drops the most wonderful thing in the world?  With no strings attached?”

      “We are… replete with strings!”

      “Nah, not really.  Me, you… building a life with an actual family and a place we seem to belong?  That’s not something Greg Lestrade deserved.  Not something _you_ deserved with Greg Lestrade.”

      “Gregory… I love you.  I am… _deliriously_ happy that we are together.”

      “Yeah, but I couldn’t help but feel that we were being set up for something worse if I didn’t… do something.  I could leave London, come to be with you and you’d have an unrepentant criminal living under your roof.  Someone who had an open file with the police, someone who’d have to look over their shoulder for the rest of his life, maybe not from my side of the line, but from yours.  And… you deserved better.  You deserved someone who had cleaned their slate.  What is it they say… paid my debt to society?  You always told me that repentance, making amends was a powerful step towards making peace with myself.  You also threw in a lot about being loved by your god and striving to be worthy of that love, but I ignored all of that.  Still do, too, so don’t start hoping I’ve come over all religious, because I haven’t.  But, I _have_ decided that the person you take into your home, into your life, has to be someone worthy of that.”

Mycroft grappled with the words and disliked profoundly where they were leading.

      “You… you are going to prison?”

      “Yeah.  They’re working out the details, now.  Anderson knew a good solicitor who is getting me the best deal possible, but it’ll involve prison time, that’s for certain.  I said the only thing I wouldn’t agree to was a monetary penalty.  Mum and Dad will need my cash to stay afloat until I can get back on my feet with a real job.  I’ll do my time and, with Anderson taking the story we concocted back to Pete, Sid and the others, that should see me free and clear with them.  Dimmock’s going to see a lot of time for attempted murder and the police agreed to keep mum on how it all truly went down, so it’ll seem it’s exactly like we said – Dimmock set things up and he won’t be able to talk his way out of it when he’s back on the streets, even if he tries.  So, with this new business and the fact that it was _his_ story that put the original wrecked deal on my head, I’ll be done with all of that for good.  And I’ll be square with the Crown, too.  No worries on that front.  Seb and Jim will be set, too.  They’ll get the good word from me and Anderson, as well as my contacts and resources, to build what they can from the foundation I laid.  But, I’m out of that business as of now.  I’ll be whatever I can make of myself from this point forward and… I can only hope you’ll still be willing to help me with that.”

      “With my whole heart.  Gregory… I do not know what to say.”

And he truly didn’t.  His Gregory had made a tremendous sacrifice and all so their life could be an honest one.  One that carried no taint from what had come before.  His beloved may not believe in the Lord, but the Lord certainly believed in him and had laid a hand on Gregory’s shoulder at precisely the right time to inspire his lover to embrace the goodness he carried inside.  It was a gift for which his eternal gratitude would be given when next he said his prayers.

      “You could say you love me?”

      “I love you, Gregory Lestrade.  You have my heart, my body, my soul… and my respect for all the years of our lives.”

Reaching out, Greg ran a hand down Mycroft’s cheek and told himself that no matter what the next few years would bring… he would be alright.  He would come home to the man he loved, and they would pick up where they left off.  Except he’d be a better man.  A man worthy of this angel-on-Earth.  Well, no, he’d _never_ be that, but he’d be someone who wouldn’t feel dirty standing at Mycroft’s side.  It wouldn’t be easy, and he tried very hard not to think what the villagers would say and do when they learned who he really was, but… they’d manage.  Mycroft was amazing at that and he wasn’t a slouch himself.  They’d get their happily ever after.  They would.  It would just start a little later than they expected…

      “My, don’t you two look cozy.”

Greg sucked in a breath seeing both Mycroft’s shocked, almost frightened, eyes and hearing the firm, clear voice behind him.  Apparently… this wasn’t quite as over as he’d hoped…


	30. Chapter 30

The last thing Greg expected to see when he turned around was two solemn-faced, uniformed men standing in the doorway, with Anderson peeking from behind them like a kid hiding behind his mother’s skirts.  Which was a more literal image than one might expect.

      “M…My Lord.  I… I am honored you chose to pay me a visit?”

      “That’s as tremulous an uncertain statement as I have ever heard you utter, Mycroft.”

      “Hey!  He was just shot for fuck’s sake!”

Mycroft laid a cautioning hand on Greg's arm, though the glint in a certain clerical eye at the outburst did little to settle his internal discord.

      “Gregory… this is my Bishop.  Do show some respect.”

      “As long has he shows some to you.”

      “Sir, do forgive Gregory.  He… he is under tremendous stress and…”

      “Mr. Lestrade’s puzzle is sufficiently unsavory that the addition of a few extra pieces will not darken it unduly.”

      “That’s it…”

Greg started to rise from his chair, but shot back down at Mycroft’s yelp of pain from trying to rise and stop him.

      “No, love.  You need to rest.  Don’t move about much.  I’ll get your doctor, though.  You shouldn’t be hurting at all after surgery like that.  You need more meds.”

      “Later, my dear.  We have… in truth I have no idea what matters we have on our hands to claim they are more or less important than my comfort.”

Especially given the person standing next to his superior was rather impressively decorated in his police uniform and Anderson’s attempts to skulk away kept being foiled by the constable guarding his door.

      “More, on balance, I’d say, Mycroft.  But Mr. Lestrade is correct, my son… rest and healing are what you require, and God will not look upon you more favorably if you ignore basic truths about your body’s needs.  However, there _are_ things we need to discuss.  Might we have that conversation now or would you prefer we return another time.”

There was not a speck of inflection in that question that led Mycroft to think he had an actual choice in this whatsoever.

      “Of course, sir.  Please… Gregory, allow the Bishop your seat and bring over the other for our second guest.  Who… I do apologize, sir, but I do not know your name.”

      “Police Superintendent William Moore.”

      “Oh.  That is a rather… lofty rank.”

      “My mother is very proud.”

      “As… as should she be.  Gregory… you are still sitting.”

      “Yeah.  Because I’m wondering what’s going on and… Anderson, you fucking bastard.  Stop trying to run away and get your skinny arse in here!”

      “GREGORY!”

      “Don’t ‘language’ me now, Mycroft.”

      “There is always time for a lesson in manners, Gregory.”

      “And that time’s not now.”

      “One takes opportunities when they are presented.”

      “Oh my god…”

The Bishop and Superintendent shared a glance that said it didn’t matter if you were a male-male couple, the sounds of married life remained the same.

      “If you continue to agitate your… partner… here, Lestrade, I’ll have you escorted back to your cell.  Is that what you want?”

Greg had an answer for the Superintendent’s question, but given the degree of profanity it contained and his very sincere wish _not_ to agitate Mycroft any further, he swallowed it down, rose from his chair and made an extremely grand ‘please, have a seat’ gesture to the policeman currently favoring him with a steel glare.

      “Thanks.  My Lord, I suspect we should get started so your man there can actually see the rest that raggedy hound of a criminal is right in saying he needs.”

The rude gesture Greg made had both men chuckling, which Greg thought was profoundly unfair since one of them was supposed to be morally against that sort of thing.

      “He _is_ something of an urchin, isn’t he?  Taken straight from Fagin’s merry band.  However, the rather tight-knickered village hosting Mycroft’s church finds him surprisingly agreeable.”

Now, it was Greg and Mycroft sharing a look and neither got the feeling the other had any better idea about what was going on.

      “Really?  Is there something foul in their water?”

      “I had thought so, because the volume and timbre of correspondence I receive from any number of them would startle even the most seasoned scholar of rural English life.  Mrs. Turner, alone, merits a chapter in any serious academic study.  That being said, Mr. Lestrade, despite being suspected of socialist leanings, is looked upon rather fondly by the congregation.”

      “That’s a better reputation than he has in London.  Even his friends think he’s a berk.”

      “A viewpoint I am coming to understand most clearly.  Though, he did do you a somewhat useful service.”

      “Oh, very true.  To save his own skin.”

      “Motive does moderate intent.”

      “But, I do have to thank him, nonetheless.  Along with the most bent constable in London.  You still with us, Anderson?”

Not by choice, no.

      “Yes, Superintendent Moore, sir.”

Greg tried to telepathically communicate with Anderson but failed utterly and dedicated his next free moment to writing a scathing letter to every living science-fiction writer to castigate them for getting his hopes up this might work.  Mycroft, however, opted for a more direct approach, at least, for championing their friend.

      “I… I would, in Constable Anderson’s defense, Superintendent, offer that he does much good for those in his patrol area and I would happily canvas to collect statements documenting his assistance to those he serves.”

      “Anderson has been on internal monitoring, for quite some time, for a list of shady dealings as long as my arm.”

      “I… that does not entirely erode the benefit to his community.”

      “We take police integrity very seriously, Mr. Holmes, and when you spend as much time with mongrels like Lestrade as you do on patrol, we have to question if policing is the right career for you.  I’d ask the Mafia if they were hiring, but they won’t take my calls for some reason.”

      “Hey!  Anderson there gets out and does some actual police work now and again, unlike most of the useless lot you hire, so you can stuff your police integrity right up your…”

      “GREGORY!”

Letting a rude noise suffice as an appropriate end to his sentence, Greg snarled mightily and wished he had any form of handle on the situation.  This was usually where he just threw a punch and let things take their natural course, but that wasn’t really an option that seemed productive here.

      “Loyalty among thieves.  What a novel concept.  But… I will credit you the point that my constable does make an effort to keep his own patch properly tended to and we don’t see any complaints coming in about him on that score.  He’s still a corrupt copper, though, and London doesn’t have a need for those, no matter how much the little old ladies seem to like him.”

Greg’s dashed telepathy fantasies were now joined by Anderson’s clear realization that human invisibility was not something he’d likely see happen in his lifetime because nobody in creation could be trying harder than him to achieve it.  Luckily, Mycroft’s leash holder seemed to be taking up the conversation, so maybe they’d forget about him and think he was a plant.

      “Which, Mycroft… brings me to you.  Might I know the reason you were involved in what can only be termed a highly-illegal transaction?  I honestly can’t find a passage in the Bible that might have convinced you this would be a stellar idea.  I cannot imagine it was for the money, however, for I gather your recent fete was an unquestioned success.”

      “I… it was for a noble cause, sir, you must believe me on that score.  Sometimes one must confront wickedness on its own terms to bring about its downfall.”

      “I would stay it was _your_ downfall that was witnessed, Mycroft.”

      “That is somewhat true, but many ne’er-do-wells were brought to justice, were they not?”

      “Including the one trying to glare me to death.”

      “Gregory, stop trying to assassinate the Bishop.”

      “When I’m convinced he’s not trying to stitch you up for something.”

      “Men of the cloth do not stitch people up.”

      “Mycroft, my boy… was that not precisely what you were attempting with your bit of playacting?”

Mycroft’s eyes tried not to shift towards his bishop, because a man his age should not appear sheepish under any circumstances, but he became the third in the trifecta of failures present in the room as he glanced over to receive his prize of a knowing smirk.

      “I… I see you are somewhat aware of the circumstances of my injury.”

      “Somewhat, yes.  Enough that I felt it prudent to discuss matters with Superintendent Moore and seek how this could best be resolved to salvage the reputation of the Church.”

      “If you try and take away Mycroft’s job, you miserable bastard, I will happily sit in jail for my entire life so I can kick you into the grave!”

Mycroft’s long-suffering groan actually earned him a laugh from his superior, who had no idea how such a prim, proper, mature, rather pompous man could love and be loved by such a horrid brat.  However, given he had met Mycroft’s brother, perhaps it was a general weakness in Mycroft’s nature.  If weakness was, in any manner, the correct word for it.  All couples should be blessed with such devotion, regardless of the ridiculous forms it might take.  It seemed his and the Superintendent’s discussions were proving to have taken an insightful direction.  Now, time to watch the brat get a bit of a smack on his nappy.

      “Shut your gob, Lestrade.  You’re in enough trouble.  However, you do bring up an interesting point.”

      “Killing a man in a dress?”

      “Your sitting in jail.”

Again, Greg tried his hitherto undiscovered mind-reading powers and found them inadequate for the task.

      “What about that?  I said I’d do my time.”

      “That you did.  But, you see… there’s a bit of a problem.”

      “Superintendent Moore, I implore you… Gregory has agreed to do proper penance for his sins; do not impose upon him a draconian penalty when I assure you, with full honesty, that his crimes do not warrant an unutterably harsh punishment.”

      “That is actually for the court to decide, I believe, Mr. Holmes.”

      “Y… Yes, you are right, however…”

      “Mycroft?”

      “Yes, My Lord?”

      “Shut your gob.”

The snap of Mycroft’s mouth when it closed was loud and sharp, though he had no idea how long the locking would hold.  He had to defend his Gregory!

      “Superintendent?  Do proceed.”

      “Thank you, kind sir.  Now, as long as Anderson’s gob stays shut, which he’s been doing a brilliant job of so far, so keep on with that, Constable… anyway, someone like you, Lestrade, will do your time, cause no fuss, then step back out into society to pick up where you left off.  NO!  No… not a word out of any of you.  I’ve been in this job a long time and I’ve seen all kinds, Lestrade isn’t some magical exception.  Maybe he truly wants to mend his ways, but that’s not easy when it’s all you know.  And, whereas I have no doubt that you, Mr. Holmes, fully believe in the redemptive power of love, that’s not some mitigating factor I can weigh in the balance when putting together a case for the prosecution.”

The amount of quivering in the room from words that wanted to spew out from various mouths was something to behold.

      “Ultimately, though, it’s the role of the courts and law enforcement to ensure both law and order are satisfied, and our citizens are kept as safe and secure as possible.  When one of our particular lambs stray, we have to decide how best to achieve that goal.  Some need to be locked up to think about their actions and, maybe, get some help to manage various issues before they’re released.  Some need to be locked up and never be released because they are the closest we’ve ever seen to real evil.  That’s not Lestrade, of course, because his evil is fairly puny and uninspiring.  The question, then, is the after-release bit.  Or…”

      “Oh fuck me with your fucking pregnant pauses!”

      “That’s one who wouldn’t last five minutes on the stage.  Jumping all over other people’s lines because he has the patience of a gnat.  In any case, puny and uninspiring Lestrade, I have a situation on my hands with a lifelong criminal and a copper who earns half his income from that side of the fence.  I can’t in good conscience, and with any regard for the honest people in this city who serve in the police, keep him on, so Anderson’s no longer on our roster.”

Something that had Anderson looking around the room as if shocked the comment was actually about him.

      “What?  I… I thought you just brought me here to yell at me!”

      “I can do that anywhere.  So, you’re gone and now… Lestrade.  Frankly, I think it’s best if you’re gone, too.  And, just so you know, the Bishop agrees.”

      “That I do.  Though I am also an advocate, and Mycroft can attest to this, of the power of good works and service to bring about the necessary cleansing of the soul to truly experience a redemption worthy of our Lord.”

      “Shit… I’m being done for hard labor!  That’s… is that even legal?  I thought that went out with the fucking workhouses!”

Mycroft saw his world falling apart and it was more than just Greg who sped forward to keep him in bed and not racing forward to comfort his lover.

      “Calm down, son… You’re no good for your Greg, rotten as he is, if you start yourself bleeding.”

      “I… I shall not calm down!  Gregory is not deserving of this, Superintendent!  Not at all!  And Constable Anderson… he can still provide valuable service to the police.  Some counseling… I shall volunteer and devote whatever time is required to turn him away from the dishonorable path.  I swear by all that I am…”

      “I know you will, Mr. Holmes, but you’ve got a lot on your hands now.  That little village of yours… it’s got its own fair share of people who need you, doesn’t it?”

      “I… yes, but that is irrelevant.  It is my duty, my _sacred_ duty, to provide aid for those in need and I shall fulfill that duty to my utmost!”

      “Of course, I don’t doubt that in the slightest.  But, it’s hard, isn’t it?  And what do you have for your local police to give you a hand with keeping the citizens in line?”

      “Sergeant Bevins is a wise and hardworking member of our community, as is young Roger, the constable.”

      “I’ve no reason to doubt that.  But… that’s a touch of an overestimate, isn’t it?  Numerically, I mean.”

      “No… not at present.  True, the sergeant is due to retire soon…”

      “His paperwork has already been processed.”

      “Uh… yes, but…”

      “You’re about to be spread very thin, Mr. Holmes.  And, I have some very bad news for you… your constable put in for a posting in London.”

      “What?  Oh… oh, I see.  He… yes, Roger has always harbored a bit of wanderlust and I was not, in truth, wholly convinced that a rural life would suit him, in the long term.”

      “It didn’t.”

      “Yes, that seems evident.”

      “So, you see why I’m worried that, despite your intentions, which I don’t doubt, you’re going to have your hands full holding things together until you police force is staffed.  And you won’t be well for awhile, lad.  That’s too much for one man, even one as dedicated as you.”

The hot knot in Mycroft’s chest began to burn worse than did his flesh when the bullet tore through it and Greg pushed everyone aside, so he could do what little he was able to help the man he loved.

      “Shhh… Mycroft.  This prat’s right, though he’s a FUCKING ARSEHOLE for smearing it in your face like that.  Don’t worry about me, no matter what happens.  And Anderson… if he’s sacked, he’s still smart and clever.  He’ll get work, good work and get it soon.”

The small snigger from the Superintendent brought an ugliness to Greg’s eyes that worried Mycroft mightily but, at this point, he thought the man deserved what was coming to him.

      “Listen, you overstuffed prick.  Anderson is more talented in his work than half of the ‘honest’ fucks you have snatching free coffee and being too lazy to chase down a purse thief if they stole it from the arse’s own mothers.  He’s quick-minded, loyal and, bent or not, there are a lot of people who are better off because he was on the job.  You want to sack him, fine.  That’s your right.  But you do NOT get to laugh at him or you and me are going to have a real problem and I really don’t care what it adds to my time in a cell.”

Greg’s teeth were bared and his eyes were positively ferocious… there was never a demon so fierce and Mycroft hoped it wasn’t too great a sin to find that particular presentation rather… lust-provoking.

      “Know that big scar Fat Sid has on his back, Lestrade?”

      “Huh?  I mean… yeah.”

      “Take a guess whose hand was on the knife that sliced him open like a pig when he tried to take an iron bar to the kneecap of their partner, back in their police constable days?”

      “Shit.  That’s actually impressive.”

      “He wasn’t as fat then, either, so there was bone showing through all that blood and flesh.  Now, sit down and realize that your baby-kitten hisses aren’t going to work on me and the Bishop here has archangels on his side.  They have flaming swords and the like, so you’re not winning this one.”

Greg now had a very good idea that some of his perceptions about high-ranking police were a touch off-the-mark, but waved off the words like a sour fart in a sweets shop.

      “Good lad.  Now, the Bishop and I had a long talk about crime, punishment, rehabilitation, redemption and a whole host of other topics, like football and why the music these young people like is such crap.  And, from all of that, I made a few calls.”

      “To BBC Radio?”

      “Oh, this really is going to be fun, you low-quality Corleone.  I didn’t think it would be, however, I am now very, very convinced.”

      “What?  Watching me hang?”

      “Unless I can swing a stick and use you as one of those piñata things, no.  And, unfortunately, that sort of thing is frowned upon by the code of police conduct.”

      “Poor you.”

      “I’ll have to stick a strongly-worded letter in your file and piss on your requests for holiday time.”

      “What?”

      “Actually… Sergeant Anderson can do the pissing.  My prostate can be a beastly thing at times and all I see is a dribble, when you deserve a full-force stream.”

The amount of sputtering and flailing would make a vaudevillian proud, and the older men simply sat a moment and enjoyed the show.

      “S…Sergeant?  Wasn’t I just sacked, sir?”

      “You were, Constable Anderson.  In a sense.  The Bishop and I agree that London poses too much temptation for you, as a whole, but you seem to be an effective officer for a smaller venue.  Like a village.”

      “V…village?  No… no, you don’t mean…”

      “Oh, I do.  You’re being reassigned but, congratulations!  You get a promotion.  Of course, you have to supervise your new constable, and god help you with that.  You’ll need every bit of that help, too, I have little doubt.”

      “My new… what… oh no.  Please tell me you’re looking at Greg because there’s something on his face.”

      “Ugliness and a lot of it, yes.  But Constable Lestrade will report for duty when his vicar is released from hospital and we finish with his paperwork.  Have to cross all the t’s and dot the i’s or his wages will go to some penguin in Antarctica.”

      “Nope!  No… no no  no no no.  I can’t be a police constable. I have no idea what to do!”

      “You’ll fathom it out.  Mostly, for a village that size, it’s finding lost sheep and scolding the children for eating some farmer’s berries.”

Greg shook his head and the fact the Bishop was smiling genially at him didn’t lessen the shaking.

      “Very true.  Before I left to take on my own church, I was raised in a small village much like the one in Mycroft’s care.  There will be times you will have to manage accident scenes, which can be most gruesome to view, however, your life, I take it, has had opportunities aplenty to see many gruesome sights.  Keeping the peace, among neighbors and families, is another duty.  That requires skills in listening and negotiation, both of which I assume you must possess or your entrepreneurial endeavors in the criminal world would not have been a success.  You must recognize that such tiny enclaves of humanity require a delicate balance between the application of the firm hand and the gentle one.  That the strict interpretation of anything, be it Scripture or the laws of man, is not necessarily the best approach when facing a problem and that common sense and a genuine desire to see situations resolved to the betterment of those involved is paramount.”

      “That’s… none of that is me!”

      “I disagree.  I _have_ made inquiries, young man.  Before, even, this disaster occurred.  One of my clergy becomes involved with another man, who appears to have moved into the vicarage and actively pursues the establishment of a home?  That news reached me _very_ swiftly, but… in general, I trust Mycroft’s judgement and simply kept an eye on matters.  The community has welcomed you, in their way, and provided you with a role in their society.  It is a role you have played well, to your credit.  There is a trust there, which is a rare thing when a stranger enters into such a situation and that is a trust which will enable you to do a credible job in your new career.”

      “But… you can’t be in the police with a criminal record!”

      “Which you lack, I believe.”

      “No… I confessed to… things.”

      “However, you have not been brought to trial, nor found guilty of anything, so I understand.  At least not as an adult, but the Superintendent said they are somewhat forgiving of youthful offenses.”

      “I… Mycroft?  A little help?”

Something Mycroft was not entirely certain he could provide.  This was… somewhat more than even his remarkable brain could process, though it _was_ heavily medicated and functioning at partial capacity, so there was no shame in his indecision.

      “Do… would you… you _were_ worried about what would be your employment avenues, once you embraced your new life.”

      “Yeah, but… I didn’t think about joining the enemy!”

      “Pish tosh, Gregory, the police are not your enemy.  Witness, Constable… I mean, Sergeant Anderson.  Who would be there to mentor you in your new position.”

      “That’s horrifying to think about.”

      “Hey!”

      “Fuck off, Anderson.  You know what I mean.  And what about you?  Want to go live out with the sheep?  Having Mrs. Turner knock on your door every day with her list of suspected Communist spies or complaining that Mr. Wilson’s dog took a shit in her garden again.”

      “It’s not Wilson’s dog, it’s the big Basset Hound that lives with that bird who works at the flower shop.”

      “Audrey?”

      “Yeah.  She told me when I chatted her up at the pub.  Thinks it’s fair since the dotty old bat is in there every other day complaining about the daisies.”

      “Ok.  Good to know.”

Sometimes, the clarity of one’s future is like that of the finest crystal and Mycroft simply nodded to the other two men in the room to seal the deal.  Something which suited each exceedingly well, because solutions that solved multiple problems were always a particularly delicious thing to savor in their respective lines of work.  Taking that as a good note on which to leave, the Superintendent rose to his feet, waved off the constable at the door and addressed the new law-enforcement team under his watchful eye.

      “Alright, then, you two can discuss dog muck later.  Anderson, let’s go.  We need to get your transfer sorted and you’ll need to be out there tomorrow to talk to the current sergeant about their protocols, open cases and the like.  My Lord, can I offer you a ride?”

      “Thank you, that would be most convenient.  Mycroft, I will visit again tomorrow.  We have much to discuss, but nothing, I suspect, that shall be as troubling as today’s discussion.  Your eye for fiscal malfeasance is as sharp as ever, I take it.”

      “I… yes, sir.”

      “Good.  I suspect we have an interesting situation with… well, that is a discussion for tomorrow.  Mr. Lestrade… take care of him.  The consequences if you do not are dire, at best.”

If Sherlock had clerical garb or a twirly cloak, he might, _might_ , be able to make as impressive an exit as the Bishop, however, it would be a very close thing to call. 

      Love… was that real or did I just have a very elaborate hallucination?”

      “If you hallucinated that rather surreal occurrence, then it was one we shared.”

      “I like that.  We’re going mad, but we’re doing it together.”

      “Apparently.  But, Gregory…”

      “Yeah… but, Gregory.  I have no idea what to make of it all.”

      “I suspect your determination to set your life on a new path and the success you had seen already in those efforts counted heavily in your favor.”

      “I can’t… me?  A constable?”

      “From what I heard and, giving it my own amount of thought, I cannot find fault in the idea.  You have shown you are willing to work in service for our little community and the wearing of a uniform will not change that.  And, of course, you will earn a wage, which is something I shall no longer have to hear complaint about when you are tasked with the most minor favor to one of my congregation.”

      “Oh, you’ll still hear complaint.  A lot of it.  I just… is that going to be enough to keep Mum and Dad in their house?”

      “Would it help you to phone them and ask them to visit so we might discuss it as a family?”

      “Yeah… but not now.  You need your rest and you certainly aren’t going to get it with them here.”

      “Ah, you have a point.  And, in truth… I am feeling my energy flow away like the waters of a river when the dam has broken.”

      “You sleep, then.  We’ll chat a bit and I’ll bore you to a sleep so deep you’ll be out for hours.  Looks like my guard dog went with the others, so I suppose I’m free to stay and keep an eye on you.  We’ll call Mum and Dad later.  Have them stop by tonight with a few things you’ll need for a comfortable stay.”

      “Excellent.  Gregory…”

      “Yeah?”

      “I love you.”

      “I love you, too.  Even with your cold toes.”

      “Your mother shall remedy that promptly.”

      “Want me to arrest her for assault by itchy socks?”

      “Hmmmm… I shall give that some thought.”

      “You’re also thinking about me in a uniform, aren’t you?”

      “Perhaps.”

      “And taking your time getting me _out_ of that uniform.”

      “Guilty as charged.”

      “Someone needs to be spanked for that.”

      “Might that be you?”

      “In a complete upending of the legal code – yes.  Yes, it might.”

      “My first duty when I am whole and well.”

      “No, that would be helping me fathom out how to actually wear my uniform.”

      “I shall take that duty just as seriously.”

      “Whatever would I do without you, love?”

      “Rot in prison?”

      “Probably.”


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we come to the end of our tale... I am very grateful for all of the kind words people have left for this story and am thrilled that our boys' adventure made brought a smile to people's faces. Please feel free to leave comments on this final installment and know that your support has been something I have appreciated greatly!

Mycroft sipped his tea and looked out at the vicarage gardens, smelling the crisp scents in the even crisper air and thanking the Lord for both the day and the life of which it was a part.  It had been a year since his and his Gregory’s lives had shifted abruptly, but to a direction that was unlike anything he could have imagined.

For his part, he had, healed most laudably and boasted now, what amounted to a husband who was openly accepted by his congregation.  Further, he could claim a nicely-boosted reputation as a man of action since the story, albeit slightly modified, of his participation in a massive London sting operation and subsequent wounding had been made public and spread through the shocked community like firestorm.  It would be a gross overstatement to declare himself a local hero, but local _personality_ was not amiss, and he had noticed himself being pointed out to visitors during whispered conversations as he walked by in the village.

And what a lot of visitors they now had!  It was odd how the ripples of a decision spread wide and into areas not, necessarily, directly impacted by that decision.  As he had promised, Gregory had provided Sebastian and James the fullest of his support and helped establish them as a presence in the London underworld.  Which had occurred quicker than some might have predicted, but _he_ had known that once even the smallest opportunity emerged, his two wayward lambs would capitalize upon in gleefully.

What not even he had predicted, however, was that their growth would include Sherlock.  It was, perhaps, unseemly to feel such pride in his brother for a criminal trajectory, however, Sherlock was using his skills as a chemist for other than drugs production and there was a legal sideline to their burgeoning empire that might, he prayed, overtake the criminal side at some point in the future.

Escorting his tea to his study, Mycroft paused a moment and smiled at the array of exquisite glass bottles that sat on the mantle of his hearth.  He should feel even more shame at his glee that his dear adopted mother was part of this new criminal gang, but her contribution was mostly on the legal end of the gang’s dealings, so his shame was easily managed.  And all it took was a stray comment by his dear new _father_ about the price of cologne and the abhorrent quality of the supposed replicas to set matters in motion.

Sherlock’s ego also factored heavily into things, as he declared immediately his ability to craft duplicates of fragrances that were indistinguishable from the originals.  Even he had been skeptical of the typically-egotistical claim, but Sherlock had quickly proved his mettle, though nobody inquired into how his brother had acquired various substances needed for fragrance production, let alone the equipment needed to see it crafted to the highest quality.

Now, two trajectories were in motion.  One was crafting and selling ‘legal’ fragrances to mirror those produced by leaders in the cologne and perfume fields.  One was crafting and selling counterfeit fragrances for individuals to purchase _believing_ they were produced by leaders in the field.  Gregory and Anderson both had connections to those who provided various types of packaging and were highly amenable to copying what normally enrobed a manufacturer’s bottle, as well as the bottle itself.  They were also highly amenable to produce original packaging if designs were provided, which a variety of creative talents were happy to collaborate upon, including both of Gregory’s parents.  And, those parents were also happy to provide bookkeeping services for the growing business and script copy for various advertising initiatives.

In a short time, with the counterfeit side of the business providing the bulk of the monetary foundation, which itself began from a kernel of investment capital from both his dear Gregory and certain trusted of Gregory’s acquaintances, their small venture was turning a tidy profit and, now, the more legal side was moving into larger-scale production and seeing success, also.  The local shops were especially eager to stock these items (as well as a healthy supply of the counterfeit version, though the counterfeit part was not precisely acknowledged) at very agreeable prices, something which visitors quickly noted and added to the appeal of their already appealing village.  And, it also added more visitors, which all the various businesses were happy to welcome with open arms.

Now, phase three was being planned and, to him, it was the most wondrous of them all.  The creation of original fragrances, concocted by his brother and vetted by the noses of the family.  Their new mother was busily creating designs for the bottles and having the proverbial time of her life bickering with her ‘boys’ about what was appropriate for the scents and the market they were hoping to reach.  Which was rather scandalously upscale, but he really didn’t expect anything else from Sherlock and James, both of whom saw themselves as stratospherically-above the level of the common man.

In all, income was being gained by all participants and his lover had lost some of the tenacious worry that his parents would fall into penury.  Between their work with the new family enterprise, their actual jobs, which they both were cutting back in hours to accommodate their other profit-making schemes, and their own entrepreneurial ventures, they were seeing somewhat a spike in earnings.  Gregory’s father had taken some of his stories to a publisher, who believed he might see some success writing children’s books and, already, he was working towards his first one with his own dear wife as the illustrator.  And that dear wife had begun putting some of her more artistic glass works in shops where they actually sold, rather than sat collecting dust, which had been her fear.  It was a small stream of monies, but her pride was, by far, the most important thing, as was his adopted father’s at the idea of his writing being published so it could entertain children.  Neither had hopes they would see those careers grow substantially, but it brought them great joy and could generate enough of an income flow that small luxuries could be funded without worry about taxes and other perils of homeownership.

And what to say of his beloved… Gregory’s near panic at taking his position as a constable had ebbed significantly as he realized that the job was very much along the lines of the work he had already been doing for the village.  Perhaps not as much construction and chauffeuring, but that was always able to be fitted in here and there, as needed.  The fact the community quickly slotted him and Sergeant Anderson into their roles and treated them as befitted their station, which was as, if not more, demanding as it had been previously, further allayed his love’s worries.  The pair made a stellar addition to the village structure and had found, he believed, a niche that genuinely brought them both respect and personal reward.

And it mattered.  It mattered to his Gregory greatly, though he did not express it aloud.  To know he was valued, looked up to, made a difference, a _positive_ difference… he saw it in his lover’s posture, in his energy, in the shine of his eyes when he donned his uniform for the day.  All his life, the man he loved had fought against a world that seemed terrible and unfair, tilted in favor of some and quick to trod on others.  That much was still the case, but now his Gregory was fighting for those others and not just himself.  Helping to give them fairness and ease some of the terrible things that could occur when one lived in this world.  Working to bring the scales closer to balance for those who needed that helping hand and… it made a difference.  Not just to those in the village, but to Gregory himself.

      “Mr. Holmes?”

And wasn’t his housekeeper rather delighted with the extra hustle and bustle at the vicarage.  The opportunity to fully use her skills and an enhanced purse for providing the vicarage with the magic she worked in the kitchen.  And, with both him and Gregory present, she was better able to delegate certain duties to give herself extra time for her own leisure and pursuit of certain mature, eligible males in the village.

      “Yes, Mrs. Hudson?”

      “Were you expecting the Dastardly Duo?”

      “Which set?”

      “Doctor Watson’s not dastardly.”

True.  And… his own heart swelled like a balloon every time he thought about traveling to London in a few days to speak at the hearing to reinstate John’s license to practice.  He had carefully documented each counseling session, whether they be in person or via telephone, and could show clearly to any experts present, the various roots of John’s problems with mood and temper and how far he had come in learning to manage those issues.  He had already passed along his insights to a colleague who had turned to the church after a long career in psychology, and they concurred that John could be trusted to practice again, though he should continue with therapy sessions, something he recommended for anyone in a high-stress profession, so that any future problems could be identified, discussed and worked upon before they endangered the safety of a patient.  A letter to that effect sat in his file to present to the examining committee and he was highly confident the verdict would go in John’s favor.  Sherlock, of course, found this highly inconvenient, at least when espousing his opinion loudly to the world at large, but a big brother could see beneath that bluster to the genuine hope his partner would regain the life he had loved, with the happiness and satisfaction it brought.

      “I stand corrected, and I suppose I must amend the nomenclature accordingly.  And, to answer your question, no.  I am not expecting James and Sebastian, though they rarely gift me with advance notice of their impending arrival.”

      “I’ll start cooking.”

      “That is probably wise.  We are within the five-hour window that Sebastian considers ‘dinner time’ and he is always content to make use of each of those hours to consume as much dinner as can fit into his body.”

      “Which is _lot_.”

      “Start him with whatever you can wedge between slabs of bread and we shall progress from there.”

      “Alright.  But put more money in the groceries crock because I’ll have to shop tomorrow.  Your in-laws are coming this weekend.”

      “True.  I shall see to it.”

Mrs. Hudson gave him a glare to impress the promise into his mind and left the study to start preparing the traditional ‘feed the huge lad’ feast.  It truth, it made her giddy to see that poor boy putting some actual flesh on his bones and if a lovely custard tart, rich with chocolate and a nutty crust made an appearance at one of the evening’s upcoming dinner breaks, wouldn’t that be a handy thing for keeping up his energy.

      “Mycroft?  Can… I come in?”

Such a large and imposing figure, for such a hesitantly-spoken request.  Far too many underestimated Sebastian based on his placid demeanor, and always to their detriment.

      “Sebastian, of course, how good of you to visit.  Did Mrs. Hudson restrain James for some reason?”

      “No… ummm… can we sit down?”

As concern and curiosity built in Mycroft’s mind, he motioned Sebastian to take the seat on the room-side of his desk and he took his traditional place to have, what he hoped, was not a troubling conversation.

      “What is the issue, Sebastian?”

      “Remember… before you got shot… you said you’d be there for us?”

Troubling conversation ahead, engines full and stay on course.

      “I do.”

      “Still mean it?”

      “Of course.  You are important to me, Sebastian.  I care deeply about both you and James and will work, tirelessly, towards your benefit if you have a need.”

      “No matter the need?”

      “Yes.  There are limits that I would impose upon anyone, such as a desire to harm another person, but… tell me, Sebastian.  I _am_ here for you and will always be.”

Sebastian scrutinized Mycroft for a moment, but saw what he always had seen – honesty and a depth of compassion and caring that almost made him feel uncomfortable, since it was so pure and true.

      “Ok.  Wait here.”

Mycroft pursed his lips and waited the few moments until _two_ sets of eyes peeked around his study door, one far closer to the ground than the other.

      “If you’re lying, I will skin you.”

      “I _would_ make an exceptional quality of leather.”

The lower set of eyes narrowed, but Mycroft, as typical, ignored Jim’s posturing and waited for whatever difficult or ridiculous topic of conversation was about to be laid at his proverbial feet.  His proverbial feet, however, were not expecting a bassinet.

      “That… that is an infant.”

      “I’d make a snide comment, but given that observation is actually an intellectual leap for you, I will refrain.”

      “Thank you, James.  Why… not to be disrespectful, but who would ask you to act as their child minder for the day and do they know you have brought their child rather far from home?”

Mycroft was always on high alert when either Sherlock or Jim was quiet because it always meant something large was looming on the horizon.  He went even further on alert when Sebastian ran a hand along Jim’s arm, then wrapped his own arms around Jim’s shoulders.  The two _never_ showed public affection.

      “It’s Jim’s.  Technically.”

      “Technically?  There is little about an infant I can see described in that fashion.”

Though the fact that Jim was staring intently at the child in the bassinet made Mycroft wonder.  The very last person he would have predicted to want to father a child was James Moriarty, however…

      “We found her.”

Often, Sebastian’s statements required a measure of thought to properly process, since the young man was a staunch advocate of minimalistic conversation, however, this went beyond even his normal standards.  The child’s blue outfit rather made him assume it was a boy, however, gender-based color for clothes had never ranked highly on his charges’ list of priorities.

      “I… her?”

The movement of Jim’s eyes away from the baby had him, instead, locking them with Mycroft’s who felt a small light go on in his mind.

      “Your mother.  You found your mother.”

      “It was Sebastian’s idea…”

Of course it was.

      “… though I did agree that we could use another menial in our organization to sweep the floors or pack crates or bait the rat traps.”

      “Naturally.  Might I ask as to her welfare?”

      “Filthy trollop.  And breeding, yet again.”

Apparently, finding his mother had not graced the young man with the timbre of reunion for which he had hoped.  Poor James…

      “Is that your way of saying she still experiences difficulties in her life and is in need of care and guidance to bring her away from the darkness?”

Jim’s flick of his wrist was a well-remembered technique for those occasions when he didn’t want to touch a topic with the thickest of gloves.

      “Then I will, of course, take up that challenge and work to see her find her way.”

Oddly, that did not produce quite the shift in his features Mycroft predicted he’d see on Jim’s face.

      “Good luck.  She sashayed off again to who knows where and look what I get left with.  A squalling larva!”

Mycroft took in Jim’s rant and the look in Sebastian’s eyes and recognized that the sashaying may have occurred, but ‘leaving’ the child with the couple was not precisely the case.

      “I see.  So, as if from a stork, this… oh yes, you _are_ rather fascinated with my nose, aren’t you…”

Since the baby had happily been reaching upwards and a downward tilt of his head to see if something was amiss gained Mycroft a chubby fist wrapping the tip of his proboscis.

      “Likes to be held.”

      “Oh, is that it.  Thank you, Sebastian.  Very well…”

Hoisting the baby from its cushioned throne, Mycroft brought every of his rusty baby-managing techniques to the fore and positioned the child so that it could continue to play with his nose, yet rest comfortably supported.

      “Heh.”

      “Thank you, again, Sebastian.  I am happy the capture of my nose delights you.  Now, I take it… to return to the ‘technically’ aspect…”

Jim thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out a paper that he flicked onto Mycroft’s desk.  Since Mycroft’s hands were rather full, Sebastian released his partner, unfolded the paper and helpfully held it up for Mycroft to read.

      “I see… she abrogated her parental rights and you currently have custody of the child.”

      “Selfish cow.  Ugh… it’s been horrendous…”

Though not a word had been spoken about the new arrival to anyone in the family, apparently, or it would have already reached his ears.

      “And for how long has the horror endured?”

      “Since Monday.”

      “Today is only Thursday.”

      “See!  My life is unraveling at light speed!”

Sebastian returned to take Jim in his arms and rested his chin on the top of Jim’s head.

      “Hasn’t been bad.”

      “It’s been crippling.  Continuous screaming, constantly demanding… everything!”

      “And you are distressed that the child is more skilled in those areas than you?”

      “You have never been funny, Mycroft.  Never.”

The gleeful squeal and giggle of the baby in his arms was the perfect rebuttal to Jim’s peevishness and Mycroft gave the baby a soft nose bop in reward.

      “Witness!  I have a vote to the contrary.”

      “Ugh…”

      “Kid likes to laugh.”

      “A sweet-tempered child… yes, I can see how the glow of jubilance would sear James’s flesh like the light of God would a demon’s.”

Sebastian’s sniggering made the baby giggle again and Mycroft couldn’t help but notice that Jim’s façade cracked every time the child’s happiness sounded in the room.

      “However, I have no doubt Sherlock can concoct some suitable burn cream to soothe the sting.  I… I am truly happy for the both of you.  I will, of course, be of assistance in whatever manner possible and… yes, I do have in my files the names of certain groups in London who assist new parents navigating the various stages of their child’s development.  I shall make a few calls and…”

      “Wrongity wrong wrong.”

      “Pardon?”

      “Can you _not_ be dreary and boring?”

      “It would take a rather herculean effort on my part.”

      “It is so hard, at times, not to murder you.  For your information, we’re _not_ keeping the larva.”

The crestfallen look on Mycroft’s face made Sebastian wish that Jim had, for once, taken a lighter approach in his conversations.  But, it was his lot in life to clean up Jim’s messes… at least this one didn’t need bleach or bandages.

      “Talked about it.  Even before he was born.  Kids don’t fit with us.  Not… not as dads or something.”

      “Are you certain, Sebastian?  You and Jim have many qualities that would make you effective parents and the learning of some additional skills…”

      “I’m not a larva minder.”

      “Could you, James, call him something other than a larva?  He is your brother, for pity’s sake!”

      “Half-brother.”

      “That makes little difference.”

And, in your eyes, I see that your emotional connection to this child is something you are trying to disguise, because it is _important_ to you.  Your own brother, perhaps fated for a life you experienced and despised… you care greatly about the child, that much is certain.

      “Sebastian, James… I beg you to reconsider.  To bring a child into your life, to raise him, grow a family…”

      “Not our thing.  We talked.  A lot.  Plus, we’re criminals.”

      “I agree that _is_ a troubling element, but you are both capable of the love needed to raise a happy, healthy child.”

      “Maybe one day.  Not now.”

Sebastian squeezed Jim a little tighter and Mycroft’s heart went out to the both of them because he could see that they _had_ discussed this, and the decision had not been an easy one.  The fact that Sebastian was doing the lion’s share of the talking was most telling on that fact.  He was always the one better suited to express the honesty of their emotions and thoughts.

      “I see.  Then… ah.  I understand.  I shall, I promise you, find the most appropriate home for this dear child.  I still know individuals within the child services area and know there are families aplenty waiting to adopt an infant.  I make you my solemn promise that I shall vet all candidates personally and ensure the one chosen…”

A large nappy bag landed on Mycroft’s desk, with a stuffed lion’s head peeking out.

      “We already did.”

      “You… you did?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Oh.  That was fast.  Then, I...”

      “There’s a crib in the car we… borrowed.”

      “Alright, I assume, then, you brought the baby here simply so I could see it before…”

      “You want it in your room or somewhere else?”

Mycroft stared at Sebastian and frantically tried to grab whatever was the correct end of the legendary stick for this conversation.

      “Why on Earth would your erect the crib here?”

      “Where’s he gonna sleep?”

      “With the… what?”

      “He likes Louie, too.  To sleep with.”

Sebastian pointed to the stuffed lion and smiled proudly since he had bought that particular toy and it was now the baby’s bosom friend.  For his part, Mycroft stared at the lion in hopes it was preparing to speak with the voice of Heaven and reveal unto him what in blazes was going on!

      “And if he is ever, a single time, forced to wear ugly clothes, I will burn this house to the ground.”

Jim finally speaking gave Mycroft’s brain enough of a kick that it stumbled in a direction that seemed to make sense if one was somewhat loony.

      “Sebastian… James… are you asking me to take the baby?”

      “Yeah.”

      “I… I have no idea what to do with a baby!”

      “Looks like you do.”

Sebastian again gave the very quiet Jim a squeeze as they both watched the baby continue to play with Mycroft’s nose, as well as a wisp of hair that was within reach.  When they’d found Jim’s mother, Jim nearly flew into a rage seeing her pregnant again and already planning to put the child into government or religious care because she had no more ability to actually raise a child now than she did when his Jim was small.  Actually, Jim _had_ flown into a rage, but pushing him out into the hall and locking the door to the distressing flat prevented any damage to mother or baby since… well, if she couldn’t raise a baby he maybe had an idea about someone who could.  Another visit to the vicarage firmed the ‘maybe’ into something he felt ready to broach with Jim.  Which was important to do quickly, because his lover had been doing everything possible not to talk about his half-brother, but worrying himself to an ulcer at the same time and this… this seemed right.  Mycroft and Greg would be good dads, Mrs. Hudson was there, too.  Greg’s parents were a special bonus, as was the quiet, fresh air, nice little school…  the fact that Jim’s response to his initial touch on the subject was ‘ugh… grass’ screamed how much his lover liked the idea.  A little brother, in safe, loving hands that they could visit whenever they liked so Jim could stay in his life… yeah, some ideas just didn’t need a lot of thought…

      “But… a baby?”

      “Oh my god!  You and Greg are insipid, dreary, do-nothing, go-nowhere excuses for humans and if the larva has to pupate somewhere, here is a perfectly acceptable place to do it.”

The fire in Jim’s eyes cut through Mycroft’s own brain haze and warmed the vicar’s heart very cozily, as well, because his former charge was actively working to place this child in a good home, where it would be cared for and loved.  The elder brother protecting the younger… it was a powerful thing when one felt that urge and, apparently, degree of criminality did not impact that in any fashion.

      “It’s nice here.  Food’s good.  He’ll have grandparents.”

Oh… why, yes, Sebastian.  That was a profoundly good point.  The excited doting by Gregory’s parents and Mrs. Hudson would be staggering.  And Gregory… the Lord, God, himself would smile seeing how ardently Gregory would take to a child in their home.  The village children absolutely adored him and he responded fully to that with an unlimited quantity of his own adoration and steadfast effort towards their happiness and protection.  For his own child… oh heavens…

      “That… that is true, however…”

      “Hello, love!  Looks like we’ve got guests… fuck me, you two stole a baby!”

Standing in the doorway of the study was a vision that Mycroft was certain was a sign from the Lord.  Heaven had sent his lover at this precise time for a reason and the quick move of his Gregory into the room to inspect the condition of the infant confirmed God was pleased with the familial turn of events.

      “If we had stolen it, you tedious troll, we would have brought it to a human trafficker and made money off the deal.”

      “Gregory… this is James’s half-brother.”

And, already, you are playing finger games with our tiny bundle… oh my Gregory, might you have fallen so quickly under his spell?

      “Really?  Wow… it’s such a handsome lad, I have a hard time believing it, what with Jim’s weasel face.  Come here, little man.  Let Greg have a better look at you.”

Mycroft handed the baby off to Greg who grinned broadly as he took the baby in his arms and made a few faces at it, which prompted a round of infant-giggles that had Greg giggling in return.

      “You’re a happy boy, aren’t you!  And so… oops!”

Jim finally laughed and it was, of course, in response to the baby spitting up on Greg’s tidy uniform.

      “Tummy a bit funny, it seems.  Know what’s good for that, little man?  A nice vanilla biscuit.  How about we get you one to gum while ol’ Greg wipes your present off of his clothes.  Hey, what’s your name, my little friend?”

Cutting eyes at Jim, Greg got the expected huff, but something about the huff just wasn’t as dramatic as normal.

      “Archie.”

      “Archie!  Perfect name for a cute baby like you.  Gonna have nice dark hair like your brother, it looks like, too.  Of course, you won’t smear yours with product so you look like a shifty banker, now will you?  Of course you wont!  Who does that?  Vain people.  Very vain people who are short and bad-tempered.  That’s not you.  Not at all.  Come on, I think you deserve _two_ vanilla biscuits for being a smart, handsome, sweet baby and not a evil, weasel-faced goblin.”

Greg made a face at Jim, then blinked when he not only didn’t get the tetchy response he expected, but a tiny gentle smile that vanished quickly, but definitely had been there before Greg stepped out of the study, baby in tow.

      “He’s dreadful.  All of England’s plodding tedium in one stupid, unattractive package.”

      “Yes, Gregory is an atrocity of an individual, however, he does seem to weather baby vomit rather valiantly.”

      “Archie urps a _lot_ , too.”

      “Babies do, Sebastian.”

      “Your problem now.”

      “I… I suppose it is.”

Mycroft gave Jim a small nod, knowing any overt gesture, such as breaking down into sobs of joy, would cause the already stressed young man tremendous discomfort, but that was precisely what he wanted to do because… he would have a son.  Gregory and he were being blessed, certainly by the generosity and kindness of the Lord, with a child of their own.  It was… they spoke of it, now and again, but weren’t ever certain it was something that would come to pass, though they both had decided they _would_ cherish such a thing… yes, they would take this child.  They would raise him with love and devotion, giving to him all possible opportunities and supporting him, unconditionally, in every step of his life.  He was part of their family now and what a large and glorious one it was…

      “He’s… he’s still _my_ brother, though.”

And, in that large and glorious family would be so many who would love this child… some more legally-inclined than others.

      “He is, James.  And never shall that be forgotten, concealed or treated with anything but respect.  He shall know you and Sebastian, and you both shall be vital parts of his life.  Never, ever, believe it shall be otherwise.”

      “Boring.”

And the matter was now officially settled.  I do see your grin, Sebastian.  Why do I suspect I shall see far more of the both of you than ever I have… at least, dear Archie shall have two people, no three for John must be included, to nurture him in the more physical aspects of life such as… sports.  Others of us can nurture his more cerebral side.

Which shall be formidable.  There simply was no question about that.  Already you could see his keen mind at work as he pondered Gregory’s biscuit offer.  Very, _very_ smart boy.  Likely planning a strategy to gain other of Mrs. Hudson’s baked goods.  Yes, he must mentor the boy in the ways of negotiation.  Valuable life skills should be instructed from an early age and gaining for one’s self a bountiful assortment of biscuits with one’s tea was one of the most valuable of all.

Though… well, at least there was a few year’s grace until the addition of soundproofing was necessary for his and Gregory’s bedroom.  A child with Archibald’s intelligence would quickly question the sounds he heard in the dark of night coming from his fathers’ bedroom and intelligent children seek answers for questions.  When the time for answers did come… Gregory could handle the facts of life conversation.  It certainly fell on his side of the physical-aspects-of-life line.  Perhaps he had best start a list of parental duties and obligations so there was no argument over the fact.  Yes, he would begin that later, once the baby was asleep.  As would the celebration of their baby _being_ asleep, which might grow most loud, indeed…

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter announcements, tidbits and musings on my tumblr or twitter, if you've got an interest (eventhorizon451 on both)...


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